


Bound by Contract

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: The Marketplace - Crossover tales [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Marketplace Series - Laura Antoniou, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual, Consensual Kink, Consensual Slavery, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Character Death, Intersex, Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Power Dynamics, References to Torture, Romance, Scarification, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 135,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The need is simple: Bond wants his body taken care of at work and his soul taken care of at home. But relationships are complicated, even with a contract outlining each party’s role and expectations.</p><p>Add in unfamiliar power dynamics, international espionage, an assassin out for revenge, family troubles, and the occasional kitchen fire, and the challenges might be enough to overwhelm even two secret agents and a genius submissive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all of you who encouraged us to continue the story we began with In Name Only, openly and anonymously. Thank you for helping us find the courage to write and post a story that we really are very proud to have written!
> 
> As always, this isn't a solo effort. Stephrc79 and Rayvanfox spent countless hours giving us literally hundreds of pieces of feedback, and Honeybee221B jumped in at the eleventh hour with a fantastic final read-through. Thank you!

**Tuesday, 27 April 2010**

It was good to be home, Q thought as he jogged up the escalator. Even after years away from London, it hadn’t taken him long to re-learn the Underground, though some of that was because of all the time he’d spent dealing with public transportation in American cities. London was crowded and old, with a well-established system of trains and buses, and while Q was a perfectly good driver, only a madman actually _wanted_ to drive in London.

He’d been back for two weeks, just long enough to settle in. Two weeks to learn the area around his new flat and to establish something of a daily routine, only to have that routine disrupted by two things: a job interview at MI6 and James Bond’s departure from England.

The job interview was actually a new experience for Q, who’d never interviewed for a job in his life. Before he’d joined the Marketplace, the underground network for voluntary slaves and their owners, he’d been turning away job offers. Afterwards, his ‘interviews’ had been more like interrogations, full of blunt, honest questions about his skills and abilities. Thankfully, he’d done extensive research before he’d gone to MI6 with Bond, his owner, to start the process. Otherwise, he had no idea how he would have answered some of the more pointless questions. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth and explain that conflict resolution at his last two jobs was handled with clear, concise orders and zero tolerance for pushback.

Q tried not to feel a twinge of anxiety thinking about Bond. He knew all too well that field missions were dangerous, even though this one was supposed to be easy. They’d known each other for barely a handful of days before Bond had actually been shot by his target onboard _Le Nautille_ , the cruise ship where they’d met. But this was the work Bond had chosen, and he’d been doing it for years. All Q could do was keep Bond’s home in order, providing a comfortable refuge for him between field missions, and get himself into MI6 as quickly as possible so he could provide more professional assistance.

For now, though, there were no immediate issues requiring his attention. Bond had placed no restrictions on Q’s life outside his duties, so Q saw no reason not to finally make plans for lunch.

The sushi bar was out of the way, but as soon as Q saw it, he realised it was perfect for this particular meeting. It was dark and trendy and just a little intimidating, all black lacquer and red neon. Q stepped inside, glancing around. A quick wave caught his attention, and he bypassed the hostess station to walk to a dark corner booth occupied by a young, thin man who could have been Q’s mirror image.

His trousers were black and grey tartan that might have been respectable if not for the zippers, D-rings, and straps hanging everywhere. The T-shirt was anything but, though Q knew it was his favourite, a tight grey shirt with a black print of Jareth the Goblin King from Labyrinth covering three-quarters of the front. Where Q’s hair was long and curled freely into his eyes and over his nape, his twin had hair that had been intimidated into black-dyed spikes with crimson at the tips. Facial piercings, spiked bracelets, and tattoos on both arms ensured that no one would be mistaking him for a corporate type out for lunch.

Or for a bloody genius, for that matter — one who’d founded and sold three software companies in the last six years, after making his mark in network security with a malware detection program that still had advertisers in despair.

He got up out of the booth and dragged Q into a breath-crushing hug that Q returned, feeling himself relax in a way he hadn’t in almost three years, since the last time they’d seen one another. Q closed his eyes, pulled off his glasses, and dropped them on the table, saying, “God, I missed you, Z.”

“You’re the one who fucking ran off to America, brother,” Z retorted, letting go reluctantly before he sat back down.

Q took off his coat and dropped it on top of Z’s leather jacket on one bench so they could share the other. The years seemed to fall away as their shoulders touched, and Q didn’t hesitate to take his brother’s hand on the table; he’d do his best to follow Bond’s no-touching rule, but this was different. This was his twin.

“Not sick of Japanese, are you?” Z asked teasingly as he shoved a tablet across the table, out of the way.

“This hardly counts.” Q glanced over as a smiling young waitress walked over. She was tall and athletic and just a bit trendy, which fit with the restaurant’s theme.

Before she could say anything, Z said, “Look who I found, Steph. I brought my twin, just to confuse you.”

She gave Z a tolerant, familiar smile before turning to Q. “Yes, because it’s _impossible_ to see the difference between you two.”

Q laughed. “If he’s a difficult customer, let me know. I’ll ruin his credit rating for you.”

“Oi,” Z protested, elbowing Q’s arm, though he didn’t release their joined hands. “Be nice. She likes me.”

“Only because she doesn’t know me. _Everyone_ likes me,” Q countered.

“Because one of you isn’t enough?” Steph asked. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Hakkaisan sake,” Z said, and then glanced at Q. “Can you...”

On _Le Nautille_ , Bond had made it clear that he didn’t care about Q’s dining habits, though Q usually refrained from alcohol when he was around. Now, though, he wanted to celebrate, so he said, “Two glasses, please.”

“And can you just let Daisuke know we’ll have whatever he wants to prepare?” Z added.

Steph’s smile brightened. “He’ll like that. He missed you. I’ll be right back with the sake. Nice to meet you,” she told Q before she left.

Q turned back to Z, ignoring table manners completely to tuck one leg under the other so he could better face his brother. “How was Hamburg? Did you get the contract?”

“Fuck Hamburg. I could code it in my sleep. I doubled my estimate, and they still signed off on it. I’m going to put one of my apprentices on it. What about you? Who’s this owner of yours?”

This time, Q did hesitate, though only for a moment. Z was the one person in the world Q trusted completely — the only person who’d ever stood behind every one of Q’s decisions, good or bad, with unquestioning loyalty. So he lowered his voice and leaned against the back of the seat, softly saying, “You’re not going to believe it.”

A protective light flared in Z’s eyes, and his hand went tight around Q’s. “Do I need to destroy someone for you?” he offered.

“No!” Q laughed and shook his head. “No, it’s... it’s just not what I expected. Or what he expected.” More quietly, he said, “He’s MI6. A spy, right out of the movies.”

Z stared at him. “You’re fucking kidding.”

Q shook his head again. “He’s not even Marketplace. He found us because he was investigating something else.”

“Fuck.” Z turned to face him more fully and leaned closer. “What the hell, Q? Not Marketplace? I thought that was your safety net?”

“It’s fine,” Q assured him. “He’s following the rules — or trying to.”

“Trying?”

“Not that way. He’s” — Q made a dismissive gesture with his free hand — “a little mundane, in that respect, but he _is_ good at what he does like doing. Very good.”

Z went quiet, studying Q’s face as though reading his thoughts. Then again, he probably was; they’d always been close enough to finish each other’s sentences, even after adulthood and their life choices had drawn them apart. “Good enough?” Z finally asked.

Q couldn’t quite hide his flinch. He looked down and shrugged, refusing to allow himself to think that his instinct — that impulsive moment when he’d said ‘yes’ to Bond’s five-year contract — was anything but correct.

Z let out a sigh and rested his forehead against Q’s, holding his hand tight. “Fuck.”

“It’s fine. It really is,” Q assured him. “And if not, it’s only five years.”

“‘Only’,” Z repeated with a little laugh. He sat back, glancing past Q, who turned just enough to see Steph return with a tray. “Only you would say ‘only’ about five fucking years.”

Q smiled. “That’s because a three-day bank holiday is a lifetime commitment for you,” he teased.

“One of us has to not be boring,” Z countered.

“No one would ever accuse you of boring,” Steph said as she set down a bottle and two glasses. “Food will be up shortly, and the chef says it’s been too long.”

Z grinned at her. “I should be around more,” he said, glancing at Q. “How about you?”

Q couldn’t hide his relieved grin. “I think I’m done travelling.”

When Steph left, Q poured sake for them both, not bothering to stand on formality. It went against his training, but Z had always been the exception to all the rules. Z took his glass and raised it before he sipped, eyes closing for a moment in appreciation for the taste. “All right,” he said, nudging one boot against Q’s shin. “Tell me everything. Starting with five fucking years with an outsider. And why the fuck aren’t you still on that cruise? Wasn’t it supposed to be a full month?”

Two weeks ago, before the shooting, Q had resented Bond’s plans to leave the cruise early. Now, he was relieved that the flight from Alaska to London was over and done with. “James — That’s his name, James Bond —”

“Sounds boring.”

Q laughed. “Be nice,” he scolded, taking a cautious sip of the sake. The last thing he wanted was to get drunk. “James was going after arms dealers, and one of them was using the Marketplace for money laundering.”

“Fucking wonderful. No one caught it?”

“No one was looking. He was an employee of Danberry & Ellis, and they handle the books for European and North American sales.” Q shrugged. “With the amount of money passing through...”

“Yeah,” Z said with a sigh. “Right, so, how’d _you_ end up with him?”

“He thought he was rescuing me.”

Z’s hand clenched, and he immediately went on the defensive, on Q’s behalf. That was how it always had been, since they were children, two misfits fighting against a world that had no place for them. Q had been born with a submissive streak that had later turned to masochism, but he’d been identifiably male. Z, though... Z’s birth had puzzled the doctors just as much as it had their parents. After surgery to ‘correct’ an unclear gender, Z had been raised female — not that it had stuck. To Q, he had always been Z, his brother, and Q had spent years letting Z wear his clothes and sneaking him into the boys’ loo at school. And at thirteen, when their mother brought up the issue of hormone treatments to make ‘Elizabeth’ a ‘proper girl’, Z ran away, and Q helped him escape.

“If you mean like our parents —”

“No,” Q cut in quickly. “No, it was a mistake. He thought it was human trafficking. He finally understands it’s not.”

Z stared at him, eyes narrowing. “But?” he prompted.

Q winced; he never could hide anything from his twin. “He doesn’t _understand_ it.”

“Fuck.” Z took another drink, and then refilled his glass. “You were supposed to fucking be _happy_ , Q. Finally getting what you wanted. Not dealing with —”

“It’s not like that,” Q said, though he knew there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “He’s not a proper owner, but... he does need _someone_.”

“Yeah, and I need a decent fucking PA, three top-notch coders, and someone to handle sales so I don’t have to deal with fucking _people_ , but I’m not buying slaves to do it.”

“You should consider it,” Q said wryly.

Z nudged at his shin again. “Seriously, brother. This isn’t _you_.”

“Five years isn’t forever. Besides...” Q shrugged and looked down into his glass before taking another sip. “If it doesn’t work, I’m already here. I’m already home. Maybe I’ll just stay in London. Make your company work.”

Z huffed. “And be miserable in three fucking months.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his thumb over the back of Q’s hand. “If it doesn’t work out — if you want out — tell him I’ll refund whatever he paid for you. You can owe me.”

Q smiled, touched by Z’s concern. “It won’t happen. Besides, I probably have more money than you do, considering what you spend on clothes and dates.”

“You couldn’t have got out of it before?” Z asked. “I mean, if he bought your contract thinking he was, I dunno, _rescuing_ you, then does he even fucking want you?”

Q looked steadily at him. “Who _wouldn’t_?” he asked confidently. “You have no idea what he’s working with. Windows Firewall, Z.”

Z flinched. “Officially? Or his personal computer?”

“Officially. I can _fix_ that.” Q grinned wryly and added, “He had me apply for a job at MI6.”

“You...” Z trailed off, watching as Steph returned with a shallow wooden platter of sushi. “Thanks, love.”

“Need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to the sake.

“In ten minutes,” Q told her.

“Um... Right, then,” she said, glancing at the time on her mobile as she walked away.

“Ten minutes?” Z asked, arching his pierced eyebrow.

Q smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Six months of training in behaviour prediction. Which will be useful for James...”

“Yeah, until you get bored of him. What happened to ‘no fucking compromise’, Q? You weren’t going to give up, remember?”

“I can’t spend my life chasing what’s impossible. This... It’s probably a good transition,” he admitted, giving voice to the thoughts that had been racing around in the back of his head for the last three weeks. “Two other owners, three contracts, and then James. And after five years, what am I going to do? Go back to another auction? I’d rather come work for you. Or have you work for me. You’re a terrible manager.”

Z huffed but didn’t rise to the bait. “And be fucking miserable. Or are you saying you’ll be _happy_ picking up doms at clubs and living on the outside the rest of the time?”

Q had no answer for that. He leaned against Z’s shoulder, uncomfortably trying to push away his thoughts. It was easier to concentrate on the near future and not make plans beyond five years, but... “I know,” he said softly. “Maybe something will change. I _like_ him,” he added hopefully.

“‘Like’ doesn’t mean shit,” Z pointed out bluntly. He put down his glass and worked a finger into the knot of Q’s tie. He loosened it with a tug and undid the top button enough so he could see the sale collar Q still wore, a plain steel curb chain with a small lock at the front. “That’s something, I suppose,” he said uncertainly.

Q wanted to agree, but as he did up his shirt and tie again, he shrugged, not meeting Z’s eyes. “He has _some_ good instincts. A little bondage, that sort —”

“Yeah, because ‘a little bondage’ has been enough for you since you were fifteen.” Z shook his head and topped off both their glasses.

“Z...” Q took his hand again and met his eyes, needing him to understand. “It’s more than just sex. You know that. He really does need me.”

Z held tightly and gave Q a slight, worried smile. “I get that, brother. But do _you_ need _him_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Thursday, 29 July 2010**

Bond stood in front of the lift, his third fag since arriving at the car park clenched firmly in hand.

It had been three months since he and Q had come back to England. Three months of sex and understanding and late-night conversations and disastrous attempts at home-cooked meals that neither of them could quite manage. Three months of Q’s stealthy aid on missions and the slow process of getting him a job at MI6. Three months of exhausting efforts to teach Q how to use his training at dance and grace for self-defence and marvelling at how perfectly he took to marksmanship whenever Bond could get him onto the MI6 firing range. He and Q had a rhythm now, a comfortable understanding of give and take and push and pull.

And Bond was about to break it.

This last mission had tested him in ways he knew all too well but were impossible to actually prepare for. He hadn’t failed, but his success had been at a high cost. The things he’d seen... the things he’d _done_... He’d carry these scars, no matter what. The question was, after tonight, would he share them with Q?

Three months ago, it had seemed like a beautiful idea. Have someone at home who he could trust to hold him together until he was healed enough to get up again from the dark that always seemed to drag him just a little deeper.

But now? In practice? Q was about to see who he _really_ was. Or, at least, could be. His time with Q had started to heal some of the broken edges left not just by Vesper but by a lifetime of distrust, but Q’s faith in him had barely scratched the surface. Bond’s darkness — his self-loathing, his cruelty — would by necessity always be a part of him, buried under the surface until he needed to draw on them again to get the job done.

Like he had these past few weeks.

Bond crushed the remnants of his cigarette.

Part of him wanted to turn around and leave, sparing Q the barely-repressed malice humming just under his skin like electricity, tainted with enough self-hatred to keep him from caring about consequences. He could get back in the car and go see Alec, who knew exactly how to deal with him in this mood.

The other part of him, though, wanted to know if Q could do better. If the push and pull dynamic they’d settled into could do more than just temporarily dull Bond’s razor edges. If maybe, just maybe, there could be more.

He took a deep breath, hoisted his luggage, and pressed the button for the lift.

 

~~~

 

Routines were meant to be comforting. They were meant to be easy. Predictable.

Three months was long enough to establish a routine, but Q didn’t have one single routine. He had two: one for when Bond was home, and one for when he was out of the country on a mission.

When Bond was home, their relationship was comfortable. Q left behind some aspects of his training and leaned heavily on others, just as he’d anticipated. His training, especially with Chris, hadn’t imparted a rigid standard of behaviour, but the knowledge to read moods and hidden needs, to adapt, and to think on his feet.

Not that Bond was an easy owner. He didn’t own a riding crop, and his belts were strictly used to hold up trousers (and occasionally holsters), but he was unpredictable. Occasionally, he fell into bleak silence, drinking too heavily and chain-smoking on the balcony.

But other times, Bond was charming and flattering, intelligence sparkling through the dangerous, grim-edged facade he always wore. He never quite treated Q like a slave; sometimes, he treated Q more like a lover. Or like a boyfriend, Q thought.

Hence, the phone call.

Eleven at night in London was seven in the morning in Kobe, Japan — the earliest proper time to phone Master Tetsuo’s House. Q went through the chain of command, drawing on his fledgling knowledge of Japanese and apologising when the speaker’s words came too quickly for him to understand, until he finally heard the voice he’d needed to hear for the week he’d been debating this call.

“This is Parker.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Chris. This is Q,” he said, rolling over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling of the bedroom he shared with Bond. He had an office of his own, but instead of sleeping on a pallet there or at the foot of the bed, he shared the bed itself, whether Bond was home or not. It was an oddity in the Marketplace, but not particularly remarkable.

A protective edge replaced the polite tone in Chris’ voice. “Is something wrong?”

Q’s instinct was to hedge and hesitate and fall back on polite, empty formulas. Emotional reticence was quintessentially British, not even the product of his later training. But he didn’t want to waste Chris’ time, and he knew how evasions irritated Chris, so he simply said, “Yes. Are you available?”

“Are you in danger?” Chris asked, instead of answering.

“No. Quite the opposite,” Q assured him.

Chris let out a breath. “I can give you ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Chris.” Q closed his eyes, cradling the phone handset between his shoulder and his ear so he could pull up the blanket and get comfortable. The land line was something of a technological throwback, but the building was, as Bond had explained three months ago, secure. The doorman was more like a bank security guard than a porter, and the cleaning staff apparently had undergone background checks to get minimal security clearance. Mobile phone reception was spotty, due to anti-surveillance technology, meaning land lines actually had a purpose here.

“Talk to me,” Chris invited.

“I think... I suspect that I’m developing feelings that may compromise my service to Richard,” Q said as steadily as he could. It was awkward to use Bond’s cover name, but they’d both agreed that as far as most of the Marketplace was concerned, James Bond was Richard Sterling of Universal Exports. Despite what had happened onboard _Le Nautille_ , even Chris didn’t know the truth.

Instead of snapping at Q, Chris was sympathetic. “It’s perfectly natural, especially at the beginning of a contract — on both sides.”

“I remember your warnings. After seven years of primarily professional contracts, though, I hadn’t... anticipated how difficult it would be.”

“Let me guess,” Chris mused. “He’s taking you out to dinner. You sleep in his bed. He does the dishes with you.”

Q hid his sigh under a laugh. He didn’t _object_ to all of that, but it blurred the lines of their relationship — their _contract_. “Yes. I was hoping you could help me find a way to explain it to him.”

“No.”

The blunt refusal startled Q. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, staring absently at the brushed steel halogen lamp on the bedside table. “I’m sorry for asking,” he said automatically.

“Don’t be. And I won’t help you, because there’s nothing to help,” Chris explained calmly. “This is the service he wants. Focus on _being_ what he wants. If he wanted you to be a housepet, what would you do?”

Q flinched at the thought, grateful that Bond _definitely_ wasn’t that type of owner. “Obey,” he said despite all that, hiding his distaste.

“And since he wants a boyfriend?”

“I’ll —” was as far as he got before he heard an impossible noise: the beep of the front door keypad. “Please excuse me, Chris. Someone’s here.”

“Go.” Chris rang off; there was no need to say Q could call back if necessary. That was part of his job as Q’s trainer.

After replacing the handset, Q slipped silently out of bed and opened the bedside drawer. Inside, he kept a store of condoms and lubricant out of his own need to be prepared, and a six-shot revolver because Bond insisted he always be ready to protect himself. He took out the gun and moved with silent grace towards the bedroom doorway, without a care that he was naked except for his collar.

When Bond was home, the bedroom door was usually closed; when Q was alone, though, he left all doors open so he could hear anything in the rest of the flat. Q knew the sightlines as well as Bond did, if not better. He crouched down, as Bond had taught him, on the off-chance that the intruder was an enemy and willing to shoot through a wall; plaster and drywall gave no protection against bullets, no matter what was shown on telly.

He listened to the door lock disengage. The alarm system beeped several times until it went off. Either someone, perhaps Bond, had entered the proper code, or someone had hacked the system.

“Q?” came the low, rough voice that had become so familiar. Tonight, though, Q heard something different — a new, dark edge that would have set off alarms with any other owner.

Q rose from his crouch and went out into the hallway with quick, light steps. If Bond hadn’t been alone, surely he would have said he had company, so Q didn’t go back for a dressing gown. He also kept hold of the revolver as proof that he remembered Bond’s security lessons.

He came around the hallway corner to find Bond standing just inside the flat. He re-engaged the security system before turning to face Q.

On the surface, Bond didn’t look too badly damaged. He had a spectacular purple and green bruise over his temple. He didn’t move stiffly enough to betray any other injuries; in fact, he moved with the grace of a predator waiting to be attacked.

Bond’s eyes flicked over Q’s naked body, landing first on the gun and then on the collar. “Good,” he said quietly.

Training made Q want to put away the gun to free his hands so he could take Bond’s coat or get him a drink, but something in Bond’s demeanour held him paralysed. He couldn’t articulate the sort of light, informal greeting that was proper — a friendly, happy welcome to assure Bond that he was home and had been missed.

Instead, he took a step closer, looking down out of habit, and inhaled slowly. He considered and discarded a dozen things to say, and finally settled on, “Thank you, James.”

Bond didn’t move for nearly a full three seconds, though when he finally did it was quick and unhesitating. He strode to Q and tipped his chin up. “You know I don’t like that,” he said quietly, meeting Q’s gaze with his own nearly emotionless but still intense expression.

Q’s heart jumped. Three months, and he’d barely made any mistakes — none that Bond had actually reprimanded, despite the occasional ruined dinner that set off smoke alarms or stumbles and bumps as they shared the bathroom in the mornings. With any other owner, Q would have known precisely what to do, but Bond wasn’t _quite_ an owner.

“I’m sorry, James,” he said as calmly as he could, wishing, not for the first time, that Bond was more predictable. This was perilously close to the sort of interpersonal guessing game he hated, though he’d decided, when he’d accepted their contract, that he’d look at it as a challenge. He just hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be.

Bond didn’t say anything in acknowledgment, though after another few silent seconds, he hummed his approval and moved past Q, bag still over his shoulder. “I need food. And a drink. And a bath. Probably not in that order.” He dropped the bag at the threshold of the bedroom and paused, back still turned to Q. He toed off his shoes and then disappeared into the bedroom.

Q let out a breath, giving himself a few seconds to collect his frayed nerves. It was too late for takeaway, but Q could manage something simple. Bond didn’t insist on fresh, home-cooked meals, so there was more than enough available in cans or boxed in the freezer.

Proximity to the living room made him go to the bar, still somewhat absurdly holding the revolver. He considered Bond’s state of mind and went right for the aged blended scotch Bond preferred when he needed to relax, rather than something simpler. He poured a double and left the bottle at the bar only because he didn’t have a free hand to carry it.

By the time he was back in the bedroom, he had a sketchy plan for a meal. Bond was standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom, staring at the empty tub. He didn’t acknowledge Q’s presence at all, though the way he moved betrayed how intensely focused he was on everything around him.

Warily, Q replaced the gun in the bedside table. Only then did he bring the scotch to Bond, hoping to distract him enough to slip by and start filling the tub. The bathroom was a lavish indulgence, with a deep soaking tub built for two and a shower that could probably accommodate three. He resisted the urge to kneel at Bond’s feet. Instead, he walked up beside him, saying, “James?”

“I probably shouldn’t be here,” Bond said quietly, still staring at the tub. “Maybe I should go to Alec’s. Keep you safe. Come back tomorrow.”

“Please stay.” Q touched Bond’s arm, careful to not let his eyes drop.

Bond finally turned his head to look at Q, and through the carefully-controlled blankness Bond was trying project, Q could see the faintest edge of desperation. Then Bond took hold of Q’s wrist and pulled him close. “You didn’t start anything cooking yet, did you?” he asked as they made their way toward the tub.

“No, James,” Q answered, careful not to let the scotch spill. He made no effort to resist or pull away from Bond’s hold.

Bond didn’t stop until he’d reached the tub. Then he turned and sat on the edge, facing Q. He stared up, searching Q’s expression. He took the scotch from Q, set it on the edge of the tub, and pulled him forward. “Just for a moment,” he said quietly, voice muffled over Q’s skin, as he rested his head against Q’s chest. He turned his head almost immediately to press his ear over Q’s heart, then stayed silent while Q held him, lifting one hand to comb softly through his hair.

He wanted to ask, but he suspected that Bond wouldn’t want to discuss whatever had happened. Instead, he remained still, careful not to show any hint of impatience, absently thinking that a voice-operated house control system would let him start the water and preheat the oven without needing to leave Bond’s arms. That wouldn’t be too hard to design at all. Some components were commercially available. He could design the system to be entirely wireless, assuming the building’s security systems didn’t interfere with the frequency, but even a hard-wired system wouldn’t be hard to install. The distraction of his thoughts helped to calm him.

“It’s helping,” Bond said, the first crack of emotion breaking his voice. It wasn’t relief though — it was misery. “But not enough.”

With a quiet exhale, Q pulled away just enough to kneel between Bond’s feet, not only out of submission but to look up into his eyes. “Please let me help you, James,” he said softly, lifting his hand to touch Bond’s jaw carefully, wary of hidden bruises. “Anything you need.”

Bond laughed mirthlessly, then threaded a hand through Q’s hair to tug his head sharply back. “Do you know what I need?” he asked, keeping his eyes locked on Q’s. “Do you know how to help me? I would be very relieved if you did. I sure as hell don’t.”

Painfully aware that he _didn’t_ know, Q knelt up and pulled against the hold on his hair so he could touch his lips to Bond’s.

Bond immediately let go of Q’s hair and pulled Q close to return the kiss. It was hard and painful and deep and desperate. Bond’s fingers pushed bruises into Q’s skin where he gripped tightly at his upper arms. “God,” Bond whispered when he finally pulled back just far enough to meet Q’s eyes, then shoved him onto his back on the cold tile, where he immediately resumed the kiss.

Q’s heart skipped and pounded again, this time not with apprehension but with sudden, almost violent arousal. He didn’t even try to get at the minimal padding offered by the bathmat. He just squirmed under Bond, spread his legs, and got his hands on Bond’s hips, ignoring the hard press of tile against his skull as he tipped his head back to surrender to the kiss.

Bond’s breath came in ragged pants as he pulled back just far enough to stare down at Q, searching his gaze for something — though Q didn’t know what. His expression didn’t change as he leaned back even further to pull off his button-down shirt. Another time, another night, Q almost would have expected Bond to give it to him as a pillow, but he just threw it aside and bent back down, pressing naked skin to naked skin, biting and kissing at his mouth, jaw, and neck.

Q moved his hands up to Bond’s back, feeling his strength. _This_ he could manage easily, and without the need to feign a confidence he hadn’t felt since Bond’s unexpected return. He thought about getting rid of Bond’s trousers, but that would mean pushing him away. Instead, Q turned his attention to mentally locating the nearest condoms; he’d been stashing them around the flat.

Under the sink, left side of the cabinet. He groaned when Bond hit that spot at the point of his jaw, just under his ear, and couldn’t quite coordinate himself enough to reach for the cabinet door until Bond moved up to bite at his earlobe.

The squeak of the cabinet as it opened wasn’t loud, but the sound still caused Bond to jerk in a full-body flinch over Q. He ripped Q’s hand away from the cabinet in instinctive reaction, and, for just the briefest moment formed a protective cage around Q.

“James?” Q asked, the name slipping out breathlessly. He wanted to explain what he’d intended, but words escaped him under the sudden ferocity of Bond’s reaction. The half-hidden, reckless corner of his mind hoped Bond wouldn’t answer, but would just _take_.

“Fuck,” Bond grit out as he pushed himself up off the floor. In a smooth roll from his knees to the balls of his feet and up, Bond stood and looked away from Q, who still lay prone on the floor. When he finally did look back, his carefully controlled mask of dispassionate observation was held firmly in place. “Sorry,” he said as he leaned down to give Q a hand.

Q took Bond’s hand and moved up to his knees, though he didn’t stand. He rubbed his face against Bond’s fingers, and then repeated the motion with his lips and tongue, looking up at Bond. “Please, let me?”

Bond’s mask slipped slightly, and once again he leaned forward as if searching for something in Q’s expression. This time he tangled a hand in Q’s hair and pulled, forcing him to his feet. “I don’t think I want to _let_ you do anything,” he growled. He switched his grip from Q’s hair to the collar and pulled hard, leading him from the bathroom to the bedroom, where he threw Q face-down onto the bed. He followed almost immediately, pinning Q to the duvet with his heavier, stronger body, barely letting Q move.

Apprehension forgotten, Q turned just enough to drag in a breath of air. He wanted to say something — to encourage Bond or reassure him, because he was always so concerned — but the only words that came to mind were pleas for Bond to not stop or hold back. So he dug his fingers into the duvet and surrendered contentedly to whatever Bond wanted.

Immediately, Bond crouched over Q, starting with harsh bites on his neck, moving quickly down to his shoulder. The soft wool of Bond’s trousers was a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin. His movements became sharper, bordering on frantic, as he covered Q’s back with marks. When he reached the small of Q’s back, he tangled one hand in Q’s collar, pulling tight, and mercilessly dug his fingers into his hip as he bit Q’s side hard enough to bruise.

Q clenched his teeth to keep from crying out at the initial shock, before the sharp pain melted away. His blood turned to fire. He groaned again and spread his legs just a bit more, dragging in a breath. “James,” he whispered, wanting nothing more than for Bond to _not stop_. “God, please.”

Bond growled in response and pulled himself off Q. With rough hands and no attempt to be gentle, Bond flipped Q onto his back and crouched over him again. Once again he met Q’s eyes, expression desperate as he searched Q’s face.

“Don’t stop. Please,” Q begged, caught between the urge to pull Bond close and to simply submit, unmoving and open to whatever Bond wanted. He fell back on training and remained tense but still, painfully aroused.

“Q,” Bond breathed out, voice cracking at the end of the sound. But then he quickly looked away and reached for the bedside drawer. He pulled out a single condom, ripped it out of the package, and rolled it on Q. Then he bent over him, took a breath, and swallowed him down.

It felt good — it felt bloody incredible, after Bond had been gone for so long. It wasn’t what Q wanted, but it was apparently what Bond needed, so Q concentrated on showing him how good it felt. He hoped that this was complex, unpredictable foreplay, but Bond never eased his pressure or speed, and he had Q close to the edge all too soon.

Then, with no warning, Bond pulled off and crouched back over Q. With one hand he yanked Q’s hair back to completely expose his throat. With the other, he pulled brutally tight at the collar. He settled again onto Q’s body, his legs between Q’s, and stared fiercely down as Q struggled to breathe. “Better?”

The jolt of panic that Q felt — the thought that he’d shown his dissatisfaction — was buried under raw need. Bond’s hands kept him from answering, even with a nod. He could only remind himself not to close his eyes or look away and hope desperately that Bond would be pleased.

Rocking hard against Q’s body, Bond seemed to be intent on bruising every bit of exposed skin that he could reach. Even what should have been the soft concave of his stomach was rigid with effort, the muscles grinding down hard onto Q’s cock. He would loosen the collar only for moments at a time — just enough for Q to get enough air to keep from passing out — before tightening it again. His mouth was inches from Q’s, capturing every exhale without providing any air in return.

“Come,” Bond demanded quietly.

The command was the last push Q needed to keep from holding back. He kept his eyes open, focused on Bond’s blue gaze without actually seeing it, and struggled to push his hips up, seeking the friction of Bond’s body through the latex. Bond shifted just as Q moved, and the drag of Q’s cock against Bond’s body was almost too much. The collar tight around his throat turned his shout to a whisper, and his eyes closed for a few seconds as he lost himself in the pleasure tearing through his body.

As soon as the last of the tremors faded from Q’s body, Bond released him entirely. He leaned down to give Q a gentle kiss, then pulled the condom off Q. Avoiding Q’s tentative touch, Bond climbed off the bed, padded silently to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

Q raised a hand to his throat, feeling new bruises, and took a couple of deep breaths. He wanted to go after Bond, but the closed door was a clear sign that he should stay away.

But why? Had he done something wrong? Or was it whatever had caused Bond to come home in this disconcerting mood?

There was nothing to be learned by lounging in bed. Q got up, tugged the blankets back into place, and went to the chest of drawers. Bond preferred him dressed most of the time; with no idea what else to do, Q felt it prudent to fall back on arranging a meal, late as it was.

He’d just pulled out a T-shirt and pants when the bathroom door opened, and he quickly dropped the clothes back on top of the neatly folded stacks of shirts, feeling unaccountably guilty for not anticipating that Bond might need him. Not that anything in their three months together had prepared Q for this.

Bond had stripped down to his pants, and telltale signs of dampness clung to his face and the edges of his hair. He walked over to Q, gripped his wrist tight, and pulled him back to the bed without saying anything. He lay down on his side and pulled Q down beside him, flat on his back, so he could lie half on top of Q, ear pressed to his chest, right over his heart.

He wanted to ask. He _needed_ to know — to understand what had happened, to analyse the warning signs, to know exactly what Bond needed — but not now.

But he’d barely lifted a hand to touch Bond’s hair when the alarm system beeped. He tensed, suddenly ridiculously relieved that Bond was home, because someone _else_ trying to enter the flat most likely meant an intruder, and Q had never attacked anyone in his life — other than Alec.

Bond didn’t react except to groan. He waited until he heard the click of the front door before he turned his head away from Q towards the bedroom door. “Fuck off, Alec!” he shouted.

“Should I remove him, James?” Q offered quietly over the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“Bloody interfering bastard won’t be removed,” Bond replied without any venom. He shuffled slightly to cover Q’s groin with his leg and to keep his ear pressed to Q’s chest while still being able to see the bedroom door. When Alec appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, Bond sighed. “Go away.”

“Fuck off,” Alec said cheerfully. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, and his hair was slightly damp from the rain. That meant he’d taken guest parking. Unashamed at catching Bond and Q in bed, Alec walked into the bedroom, pointedly looking around. “No blood. I’m surprised.”

“Tanner is a lying bastard,” Bond muttered. “I’m fine.”

“Tanner _is_ a lying bastard, yes. But I saw your after action report.” Alec looked around the bedroom as though searching for something. “Huh. Vodka’s on the kitchen counter, already chilled. Go get it and a couple of glasses,” he said, looking at Q for the first time.

Q didn’t move, though he also avoided meeting Alec’s eyes. He tensed slightly, prepared to get out of bed, but he wouldn’t move without Bond’s permission.

“He’s busy,” Bond said with a glare. But after Alec didn’t look away, Bond sighed and sat up, arranging himself to block Q from Alec’s view. “You get the glasses ready. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“If you shoot me in the back, you’ll have paperwork until the end of the decade. The _next_ decade,” Alec warned, turning and walking out of the room.

“Fucking Russians,” Bond muttered. He swung his legs over the bed and groaned as he stretched. “Stay here,” he told Q without meeting his eyes. “We’ll probably be up all night, so you may just want to go to bed. Don’t come out unless I ask you to. Ignore Alec completely.” He stood and went to the chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of running trousers and a T-shirt and slipped into them quickly.

Distinctly uncomfortable now, Q quietly said, “Yes, James.” He didn’t get up; he had the feeling that even a touch wouldn’t be welcome.

Bond made it to the doorway before he looked back at Q. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly before he slipped out, closing the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thursday, 29 July 2010**

Alec sprawled on the comfortable, out-of-place leather sofa, feeling a hint of satisfaction at how spectacularly the last sofa had ‘accidentally’ caught fire. The fact that Alec had burned the sofa while James was out of the country for a month had put the buying decision in his hands, which meant the new sofa was overstuffed and had proper springs, rather than being a hideous foam sculpture that belonged in a modern art museum.

The comfortable couch would help Bond relax. Of course, so would having the old sofa. Then they’d be able to light it on fire together. Destroying things was therapeutic, after all.

Bond’s after action report read like the same bland AAR he’d been turning in since before they’d joined MI6. The shrinks and execs would look at it and never notice the key turns of phrase that had jumped out at Alec with bloody, clawed hands. No, they’d congratulate themselves on sending Bond on a mission that he’d wrapped up so neatly, and then they’d never give the AAR a second glance, except to reduce it to numbers for budgetary purposes or performance metrics.

Fortunately, Alec was used to picking up the pieces. Hell, he would’ve come over sooner, except he’d debated, for the first time, leaving that task to someone else. But then he’d thought about Bond and Q and what he’d seen of their relationship over the last three months — because it _was_ a relationship, whether Q wanted one or not — and he realised that was a disaster in the making.

Not because Q was incapable. Hell, Q was better suited for allowing Bond to blunt the edge of his inner darkness than Alec ever would be. Alec could play at baring his throat, but inside, he and Bond were both alpha-types. It was more reflexive to snarl and snap at one another than to find any sort of balance together.

Q, though... Q was _exactly_ what Bond needed, and exactly what he was too blind to actually take. On day one, Bond had seen Q as a fragile victim, and he’d never quite put that aside, Alec knew. Pale skin, thin limbs, sharp bones — Bond was probably scared of hurting Q by rolling over too fast in his sleep. Which meant that instead of being out at a nightclub, trawling for company, Alec was _here_ , to put his best mate back together.

Bond emerged from the bedroom dressed in comfortable clothes, body language making it obvious that whatever had happened between him and Q, it hadn’t been to Bond’s benefit. He headed straight to the shelves against the living room wall to retrieve a pack of cigarettes from an old cigar box. Then he collapsed on the couch next to Alec, close enough for their shoulders to brush. He didn’t take out a cigarette; he just stared at the pack in his hands.

“She was seventeen at the most,” he said quietly. “Her neck snapped like a twig.”

“She was going to kill your asset. Finger on the trigger. She wasn’t a teenager. She was a killer.”

“The building must have had a lot of copper in it. Burned green.”

Alec leaned forward to where he’d already set out two glasses and the chilled vodka he’d brought over. Now, he opened the bottle, watching the vapor that poured off the glass sides. Life had been simpler twenty years ago. Follow orders. Fight and kill and risk death. Then drink the night away and do it all over again. Now, though, they were the ones making the decisions in the field, in the moment.

He poured too generously, but he needed to get a jump on whatever had happened between Bond and Q before he’d arrived. “Could’ve been other chemicals. Something more dangerous,” he pointed out, knowing that Bond would be hearing the screams of everyone trapped inside, guilty and innocent alike.

Bond was silent for as long as it took him to drink the entire glass of vodka. He shuddered and sat back. “Fuck. Should have eaten something first.” He cast a glance at the kitchen but didn’t move.

Alec and Bond could judge their respective alcohol tolerances to within a glass. Even if Bond had skipped all three meals today, he could handle another glass before it became critical to feed him. Still, Alec didn’t feel like getting interrupted. “Send Q to get something. Not to cook. You’re both horrid at cooking.”

“Q is in bed,” Bond said shortly. Then he refilled his own glass and stood. “Want a tin of ravioli?”

“Because the takeaway place two streets down is suddenly serving poison? Get him out of bed,” Alec said, stopping only long enough to pour himself a drink before he followed Bond across the living room. “Tinned ravioli? What are you, twenty?”

“We have our moments of kitchen success, but it’s not worth the effort tonight. And the takeaway places have to be closed by now. What is it, midnight local time?” Bond asked as he dug around the cupboard. He pushed aside several jars of tomato sauce to pull out an overly cheerful tin of pasta. He popped the lid and binned it, put the tin down, and took a fork out of the silverware drawer.

“Christ. Get out of the way before you burn yourself,” Alec said, pushing Bond aside so he could make dinner. Why the hell _he_ was doing this instead of Q, he had no idea. “If you were in this bad shape, why didn’t you come to me?”

Bond didn’t say anything at first, but pulled a bowl out of the cupboard to pass over to Alec. He cast a glance at the hallway, then started drinking his second glass of vodka. “I thought...” he finally said with a shake of his head.

“Right. Let’s try again.” Alec dumped the ravioli in a bowl, giving the tin a shake to get out the last couple stuck to the sides. “Why aren’t you in there, fucking this out with Q? If you tell me you like me more than you like him, I’ll stab you.”

“I tried.” Bond looked up at Alec and shrugged. “I don’t think it works, with him.”

Alec put down the bowl and turned to stare at Bond in horror. “You mean... you couldn’t...” He made an awkward gesture.

Bond glared at him. “He’s a masochist, Alec. I hurt him. And when I looked down at him, he just... wanted more.”

Alec’s first instinct was to smack the back of Bond’s head and send him back to try again. But he knew Bond better than anyone — better than Bond himself. It was one thing to target someone like Alec, someone who could handle himself in a fight and who’d fight back, giving as good as he got. And it wasn’t even that Bond was afraid of hurting Q. Not precisely.

He was afraid of _enjoying it_.

With a sigh, Alec picked up the bowl, covered it with a kitchen towel, and put it in the microwave. “You’re not drunk enough for this reality, James. Go get a refill.”

Bond pushed away from the counter, finishing the last of his vodka as he went. “What reality?” he asked. He didn’t refill his glass, but brought the bottle back to the kitchen.

Instead of answering, Alec stared at Bond, looking at the tension that had his back and shoulders locked up straight, the aggressive balance in his stance, the way he positioned himself so his back was away from the kitchen entrance. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a bloody shrink alive that could handle either of them, or if they’d all just collectively turn in their degrees and get jobs as wildlife photographers or something. Photographing polar bears and sharks was safer than venturing into a Double O’s shadows.

“He wanted more,” Alec said, deciding that the problem of Q was less sharp-edged than the mission. They’d have a mission recap once Bond was too drunk to properly stand.

“He _always_ wants more,” Bond said with a sigh. “No matter how much he tries to hide it, I know I’m not what he would have chosen. But we make it work. And he... helps. He trusts me. He’s not afraid of me. But ...” He shook his head and poured another drink. “I’m not nearly fucking drunk enough for this discussion, either.”

“Our choices are Q, the mission, or we just skip right to the brawling — or worse — and _that_ will just drag Q into it when he comes out to investigate the breaking glass and furniture. Your choice,” Alec said bluntly as the microwave beeped. He turned and opened the door. The smell of the tinned ravioli wasn’t appealing, but they’d both eaten worse.

“I told him to stay in the bedroom. He won’t come out,” Bond said with confidence. “Or you could leave and I can go back to...” He gave the bedroom another look. “Fuck.”

“Mhm.” Alec got the bowl out and offered it to Bond. The contents weren’t hot enough to burn. “Is this even working between you two? Really?”

“By whose definition?” he asked with a shrug. “It’s everything I want, except for one minor detail. He doesn’t actually care about me at all. He serves. He submits. But he doesn’t have any actual feelings for me.”

Alec watched Bond expectantly. He knew logic had nothing to do with this, but there wasn’t a single Double O who could keep a relationship longer than three months, and then only if two of those months were on a mission overseas. Half the Double O’s had made whole legions of divorce lawyers rich; the other half were too smart to even try. So they bonded with each other or learned to drink alone and went out to prowl for someone to fuck when they needed it, and they all died young — or sort of young — anyway, so it was easier to not have next-of-kin and heirs.

“Are you in love with him?” he finally asked, studying Bond’s face intently. Bond would lie like an expert, but Alec knew every fucking one of his tells.

Bond looked up at Alec. Apparently he decided that there was no way he would get away with the lie, so he didn’t even bother. He set the bowl of ravioli on the counter and leaned over it, poking at it before he dropped the fork aside. He reached for the vodka without taking a bite and avoided meeting Alec’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter in the slightest, does it?”

“It’s a good thing you have all those _other_ options banging down your bloody door,” Alec said flatly. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Hell, I’m thinking you’ve picked the right way to do things.”

“Then why the hell are you here?” Bond asked bluntly. “He may not be a master chef, but he can heat ravioli for me.”

“And he was doing such a good job of that when I came in.” Alec took a deep breath, looking up at the rack of copper pans hanging over the kitchen island. As far as he was aware, those pans had never actually been put to their designated use, but Bond had them anyway. For the first time since they’d been unboxed shortly after Bond had moved in, they gleamed, and Alec couldn’t help but wonder if Q had done it or just bullied the maid service into doing it instead. Probably the latter. Q struck Alec more as the project manager type.

“Fuck you, Alec,” Bond said with annoyance, and just enough real anger to capture Alec’s wandering attention. “He’s fine. I’m fine. If you’re not going to be useful, go away.”

“I _am_ useful,” Alec pointed out, gesturing to the bowl of ravioli. “Besides, you’ll just fuck this up more if I leave you alone. And before you go thinking you can take me in a fight, you’ve had nothing to eat since god-knows-when and two glasses of vodka. Three? Whatever.”

Bond finished his drink and set the glass down with a hard thunk. “Three. But I’ve been training Q. He can’t take you, but he’s damn slippery. He could help.”

“Now there’s a thought. I’d much rather fuck him than you,” Alec said, hiding a humourless grin. Bond was so bloody predictable, even drunk...

Just in time, Alec ducked the vodka glass that flew from Bond’s fist towards his face. When it shattered against the refrigerator with a loud burst of glass, Bond huffed. “Don’t fucking touch,” he muttered. “He’s mine.”

Stepping away from the broken glass, Alec ruffled a hand through his hair, making sure there were no shards caught in the strands, and said, “You don’t get to have it both ways. Either he’s your bloody boyfriend, and it’s _his_ choice, or he’s your slave, and he wants you to be a fucking dominant. Should I go ask him which of us he wants?”

“Go ahead,” Bond huffed, taking a drink directly from the bottle. “He won’t choose you.”

“Nice to have that sort of certainty, given that every fucking man or woman married to one of the Double O’s eventually ends up cheating. Half the time with one of us,” he said without any real sense of irony. Exploiting a crack in a relationship just made their lives easier; the fact that the crack was there wasn’t their fault, after all.

“He’s bloody perfect, Alec,” Bond said, still glaring at Alec. “He’s exactly what I need him to be, when I need him to be it. Not because he is, but because he knows it’s what I want. He won’t cheat or steal or lie to me.  And he’s an excellent shot,” he added with a smirk. “But for tonight, I’m just going to get drunk and pass out, and you’re going to hang around just long enough to make sure I don’t hurt him.”

“Because he gives you what you want, and you won’t give _him_ what _he_ wants. Right, that makes sense. You sure you’re not married?” Alec turned his back deliberately, concentrating entirely on listening for any hint that Bond was going to take another shot at him, and took down a fresh glass.

“It’s not about the sex. It’s about the fact that I look at him, and see myself through his eyes. Human. Someone who he’s not afraid of. And if I took him tonight, gave him what he thinks he wants...” Bond took a bite of ravioli, grimaced, and pushed it away. “That would change.”

“I’m not drunk enough to follow that,” Alec admitted, pouring Bond a refill. “You think he’d be afraid of you if you gave him what he wants?”

“What he _thinks_ he wants, Alec. Think about us. Do you think he’s really ever had that kind of experience? There are no safewords for him.”

Alec nodded and turned to get a glass for himself, since he had no fucking clue where his own glass was. It was either on the counter behind Bond or in the living room.

He knew the details of the contract between Q and ‘Richard Sterling’. It had been ridiculously easy to break into M’s office and steal the appropriate files back while Bond had still been on the ship. He’d copied the files, only to get sent halfway around the bloody world, leaving him too late to give Bond the backup he needed when he went after that fucking bastard, Kolya, and ended up getting himself shot.

On the flight home, with Bond entirely focused on keeping Q from having a breakdown due to his fear of flying, Alec had read the details. No permanent marks. Condoms. Complex requirements around computers, glasses, names, and other such trivia. Medical care, contact with his trainer.

And that was it.

No safewords. No saying ‘stop’ or ‘no’. It was bloody terrifying to imagine, not just because it was too much like a mission gone wrong, leaving an agent in the hands of unknown enemies, but because that sort of open ‘do anything you want’ invitation was like a drug to people like Alec and Bond.

They’d experimented. Of course they had. Gone to all the right clubs and parties, taken home dates whose tastes caught their interest, but Alec had never actually let his guard down, not even with his ex-girlfriend, and he’d lay money that Bond was the same way. Really, they couldn’t _trust_ anyone.

Except for this. Alec had been thinking about it far too much, and he’d also lay money that Bond had been. Only Bond wouldn’t act on it — not with Q. And if Bond was in this shape after one bad mission that was actually counted as a success by those arseholes in the exec branch, how the fuck was he going to react when he failed?

He got a glass down and filled it, turning to Bond only when he knew he wouldn’t be giving away his thoughts. “Only way to know is to ask,” he said.

“Bullshit,” Bond said, slamming his glass down again. “He’ll say yes because he doesn’t actually fucking know what will happen. How terrifying we can be. And he won’t say no, even if he wants to. And then that light, that lack of fear, will be gone.”

“Fine.” Alec took a drink — there was no sense even pretending to toast — and said, “I’ll find out for you. He can hate me.”

Bond sighed and leaned over the counter, running his hands through his hair. “He certainly wouldn’t object.” Then he looked at Alec grimly and took another drink. “But I don’t think I could just hand him over to you like that. It feels... wrong.”

“And two years from now, when you’ve got three to go and you _still_ haven’t given him what he wants? Five years, when you’re looking at losing him?” Alec challenged.

“I’m not in the mood for this conversation tonight,” Bond snapped. “Are you driving or am I?”

Alec stared at Bond, seeing the determination in his eyes — the absolute refusal to let this discussion continue. “I’m driving,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up the bowl of ravioli and tossed it in the sink. “Go get shoes. Or do you not care?”

Bond looked over at the closed bedroom door with a frown before he turned and went to the hall cupboard. He pulled a pair of trainers out and shoved his feet in them without going to the bedroom for socks. Then he yanked on his jacket, grabbed his keys and wallet from the bowl on the table, and stood expectantly.

“We’re stopping for food, and you’re going to eat, before anything else. I’m not having you throw up in my car,” Alec said, once he’d joined Bond in the foyer. With a last glance back in the direction of the bedroom, he pulled on his jacket. “You sure you don’t want to stay here?”

Bond gave him a look, and turned. “We’re going out, Q!” he shouted in the general direction of the bedroom. “Do as you like.” Then he yanked the door open and walked out.

Trying not to worry too much, Alec shook his head and followed.

 

~~~

 

Q didn’t even make it to the bedroom door before he heard the alarm system engage and the door lock. He walked out anyway, wary of his bare feet, since he’d heard glass break. But a quick look around the flat showed that Bond had actually left, despite... well, despite _everything_.

Frowning to himself, he went back into the bedroom to dress and put on shoes. Bond was in no shape to be out in the world — not while he was still consumed with whatever was haunting him — but hopefully Alec would be able to keep him out of danger.

Not that Q had any way to find out. He wouldn’t disturb either of them. He’d clean up whatever mess they’d made, and then see what he could arrange for a meal, just in case Bond returned. Sandwiches, maybe; those would keep, and if Bond didn’t come back, Q could just bring them to work tomorrow.

The thought of Bond being away, though, didn’t sit well with Q. He needed _someone_ , and as close as he and Alec were, it seemed more like he’d be an antagonist than anyone who could help Bond relax.

And in a way, this was Q’s fault. Sexually, he and Bond were just fundamentally incompatible. Bond lacked the edge that almost every other Marketplace owner had — the edge that had never been sharp enough or real enough to satisfy Q at play parties and clubs — and Q wasn’t a good enough actor to convince Bond that the lack wasn’t a problem. Otherwise, he and Bond would probably still be in bed, sated and content, and Alec would’ve gone home, realising there was no need for him to take care of Bond at all.

 _Next time_ , Q thought, staring at the broken glass on the kitchen floor. Next time, he’d figure out what Bond needed.

 

~~~

 

**Friday, 30 July 2010**

“Are we going to the office, or am I taking you back home?” Alec asked as he came out of the bathroom, now wearing the ripped blue jeans he preferred to wear around the flat. He finished towelling his hair dry and threw the towel in the direction of the laundry basket perched on top of three boxes he had yet to unpack from his last move. He tended to move every few months, either for security or because he’d got kicked out by the landlord, and had only bothered to unpack his clothes. Well, his clothes and his bomb-making kit, which had turned into a tangle of wires by the bedside table.

Bond was sprawled on the bed, looking much less jagged around the edges. He was toying with a pack of cigarettes, letting one fall most of the way out into his hand, then turning the pack over to let gravity pull it back. “Why the hell do you have that by your bed?” he asked, tipping the cigarette out so he could use it to gesture at the wires. Then he shoved it back in the pack. “I know your last mission was boring, but I didn’t think it was _lethally_ boring.”

“Where was I supposed to put it? The kitchen?” Alec asked. It was a perfectly logical question. “Besides, I never bring anyone in here, and there are always people repairing things in the kitchen. And if you want to blow something up, fine. Not like I can’t afford to lose the security deposit.” He took the pack of cigarettes and shook one out for himself.

Bond snorted. “And you think Q and I are terrible in the kitchen. At least our problems don’t result in smoke and fire damage.” He stood from the bed and stretched, not bothering to hide his wince. “I didn’t have socks, right?” he asked as he bent to pick up his trainers.

“How the fuck should I know?” Alec asked, wondering how much longer they could do this before one of them ended up permanently broken. It wasn’t even just their missions; it was the fact that at home they had no one but each other. Alec couldn’t even say that Bond had Q, because he _didn’t_. Bond was with Alec, the idiot, instead of at home taking advantage of Q’s presence to help ground him here, in London — to help pull back all the pieces left behind in the field.

He rummaged through the box of wires to find a lighter. He lit the cigarette and tossed the lighter at Bond, aiming for his head. Bond looked up long enough to catch the lighter, but he didn’t light a cigarette until he’d pulled on his shoes.

“You can’t go anywhere like that. Go shower. It’s” — Alec pushed open the white blinds with a rattle — “almost morning. I might have one of your old suits here, if you want to go in. Or you can stay here, get some sleep. You look like shit, mate.”

Bond stood and stared at the door to the bathroom, hesitating for a minute before he kicked the shoes back off. “Fine. Quick shower. But then I’m going home. I don’t know if I’m going to go in tomorrow or not. Fuck Tanner.”

“Today. And I mean it’s today. Not fuck Tanner today.” Alec snorted out a cloud of smoke and sat down on the far side of the bed. It creaked dangerously, wobbling on the skewed frame. He was tired and sated, even if the sex hadn’t been what he might have preferred. “I need a house. Should I buy a house? No neighbours upstairs to bitch. Or downstairs to catch any heavier-than-air fumes.”

“If you buy a house you’ll just burn the damn thing down. I hear they have insurance policies to help rebuild, but after two or three times it starts to look suspicious.” Bond leaned against the doorway, not looking at Alec, apparently deciding he needed to finish his cigarette before he showered. “Besides, don’t houses come with gardens and maintenance?” He snickered. “You could plant something, like a rose bush.”

“Or poisons, like that one poison garden place. We wouldn’t have to go to TSS,” Alec suggested, sprawling out on the side of the bed. He tapped ash onto the bedside table, not caring about the damage. Every time he moved, he contributed a week or so of his salary to Ikea for disposable furniture. “I could get someone to help.”

“I think there are a few steps between plant and poison, but those are just details,” Bond said with a chuckle. “And I hear gardeners are useful people. They actually like to dig in the dirt and get stung by bees and get their hands ripped up by thorns.” He shrugged.

“Or I could get someone more useful than a service that would fuck around in the yard twice a month and charge me a fortune even when everything dies.” Alec looked up at the ceiling and took a slow, measured drag. He’d been looking for a way to bring this up and hadn’t found one. Now probably wasn’t a good time, but fuck it. There never would be a good time.  ”You could introduce me to your Marketplace contacts.”

“I don’t have any contacts,” Bond lied, voice gone flat with feigned disinterest. “You’d have to talk to Q.”

 _Arse_ , Alec thought. Q was wasted on Bond, except that Bond was attached to him. Possibly more than just ‘attached’. And Q... Q was everything Alec _never_ found on dates or at clubs. Why the hell he’d never heard of the Marketplace until now, he had no idea. It was a bloody perfect solution to the problem all field agents shared: the absolute inability to maintain any sort of normal relationship back home. A very practical side of him wondered why the hell MI6 didn’t have a deal with the Marketplace to assign all new field operatives their own slaves, complete with weapons training and security clearances.

Then it occurred to him that if Bond _did_ get his head out of his arse about Q, he’d be set. He’d have someone to take care of him. He wouldn’t need Alec anymore. And then who would Alec turn to when _he_ needed help?

Obviously, he’d need to find someone else, much as that thought hurt. A bit more sharply than necessary, he said, “I think I will.” He flicked ash onto the bedside table, thinking that if Q were here — if Q were _his_ — at least he’d be able to find a proper ashtray. “You going to say anything to him about tonight? Or about your mission?”

Bond closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the doorframe with a thump. “I don’t know. He’s not my boyfriend or my lover — I honestly don’t think he’ll care. So why bother with the conversation? He doesn’t need to know about” — he waved his hand vaguely — “any of that.”

Alec sighed. “Because he’s got the security clearance to see some of it, and the TSS techs gossip worse than babushkas at market. Especially about field agents.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bond said noncommittally. “Having... someone like him isn’t anything like what you’d think it would be. It feels like a constant negotiation, sometimes. And he never tells me what _he_ wants, so I always feel like I’m just a little out of step.”

Frustrated, Alec snapped, “You’re not an idiot. You _know_ what you’re doing wrong. So fuck it.” he inhaled smoke and blew it out at the ceiling. “I’m not going to be able to sleep. You want to find breakfast?”

“What am I doing wrong, Alec?” Bond asked with a sigh that was more tired than irritated.

Alec stubbed out the cigarette on the bedside table and pitched the butt into a half-full rubbish bin across the room. He rolled over onto his side and propped up on his elbow, facing Bond. “Remember Barbara? The estate agent who got me that one place with the windows? I was sleeping with her, on and off, until you and I ended up in Jo’burg for four fucking months, and she figured I was dead.”

“The one with the wicked blonde hair and the pink shoes?” Bond gave a half-smile. “She _hated_ me.”

Alec grinned at the memory. “You can say that again. Didn’t help that you sideswiped her car. But perfect example. One of the best nights I ever had with her, you know what did it for her? Me telling her I was going to give her to you.”

“So she fucked you senseless to prove she was worth keeping?” Bond asked with a raised eyebrow. “Lovely story. What does that have to do with anything?”

“She fucked me senseless because she was damned near as submissive as Q, and got off on the idea of me giving her to you — despite hating you and wanting you dead.”

“If this is your not-so-subtle way of arranging to sleep with Q,” Bond said with a glare, “I’m going to have to throw something else at you.”

“Christ, you’re a fucking idiot.” Alec sat up, wondering if he was going to have to spell this out with diagrams and fucking charts. Or maybe he’d just drag Bond home and _make_ Q tell him what he was missing. “Barb didn’t want to fuck you. Barb wanted to be told what to do — even if it wasn’t something she wanted to do. So stop fucking around and _tell him what to do_. Whether _he_ likes it or not doesn’t matter.”

“I know,” Bond said with a sigh. He walked over to the bedside table and crushed the cigarette. “I just haven’t got used to it, not really. And he works at MI6 now. He’s a fucking colleague.” He shrugged. “I have time to figure it out. Though by the time I do, he’ll be gone.”

“What’s to figure out? You were a bloody officer. Give orders. You used to scream bloody murder at the ones right out of officer training. ‘Command, don’t ask’, and all that? What happened?”

Bond looked at Alec like he was about to say something, then shrugged again. “I’m taking a shower,” he muttered, and headed to the bathroom.

“I’ll call in, tell them to bugger off. We’ll go get breakfast,” Alec shouted after him.

“Breakfast, then you’re dropping me back off,” Bond shouted back. “Q has been alone for too long. I should stay there today.”

“Q’s going to the bloody office! Idiot!” Alec walked over to the bathroom doorway. “Either you stay home and avoid him, or you suck it up and go to the office like a fucking adult. Which?”

“How about I stay here and play with your bomb kit?” Bond retorted with a laugh. “What’s one more wall on fire to your repair crew?”

“Bloody coward,” Alec said, and slammed the bathroom door. He’d give it a few more months. He’d sniff around and see what he could learn about the Marketplace, and he’d hope that Bond got his head out of his arse and started being Q’s owner, rather than his fucking boyfriend. That or he might well try to find a way to steal Q for himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Friday, 15 October 2010**

_Why am I only now hearing that you’re back in London? I’m very disappointed in both you and your sister. Have you even contacted your mother? Did she tell you not to write to me?_

_Give me your address. Don’t make me find you._

With a faint sigh, Q deleted the email and scrubbed it from the system. He’d managed to evade his father for the six months he’d been back in London. Not bad, all things considered.

The email had come in after his shift last night, so it had already been backed up onto the servers at midnight, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. The wording implied that his parents were divorced, which complicated matters. Without a proper wife beside him in campaign adverts, his father would look to Q instead to present a family for the media to photograph. Z _certainly_ didn’t fit the picture-perfect image their father wanted to present.

He couldn’t help but regret coming back to London, much as he loved it here. At least in America and Japan, he’d been well out of his father’s reach. But to stalk Q at his MI6 email address?

Using his real name had been a mistake. Damn this security clearance. He leaned back in his chair, biting his lip for a few seconds before he caught himself. Of course, this would only last another four and a half years, unless he accepted a contract renewal. He could avoid his father for four and a half years. And happily, Bond wasn’t likely to interfere and do something horrid, like order Q to get in touch with his family again.

Just as Q was about to mouse over to the program that would allow him to eavesdrop on Bond’s communications with Ms Marsh and her team, he heard footsteps. He quickly closed that program and was working on the significantly more boring inventory database when a familiar, friendly face appeared over his cubicle wall.

“How are things, my boy?” Major Boothroyd asked, grinning.

“Almost done with the back-end programming, sir,” Q said, with an answering smile of his own. Geoffrey Boothroyd was near retirement age, if not past it, but was a fixture in Technical Services Section. He’d been a part of MI6 even longer than Ms Marsh, and between the two of them, they probably knew where all the bodies were buried.

“That’s good,” Boothroyd approved, though Q saw the slightly dazed look come into his eyes at the unfamiliar terms. Boothroyd was an absolute genius with engineering, but computer programming was a mystery to him, unfortunately.

“I’m laying the foundation for a database that will handle whatever request our users make of it,” Q explained. “The old one kept crashing because it was a modified version of a program written by a university student to handle the stationery cupboard inventory. We needed something that could handle more than ninety-nine entries.”

“Well, yes. You’d think with the world in its current state, they’d give us a decent budget. Ah, well. At least you’ve got it. And Danielle knows?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“What about TJ?”

Q hid his instinctive flinch. “He’s currently occupied supporting the mission in Colombia, sir. I thought it best not to disturb him.”

“Well, when you get a chance,” Boothroyd said genially. “He’s good with computers.”

“As you say, sir,” Q answered, falling back onto his training to find a response that was polite.

The problem was, TJ _was_ good with computers, but not good enough to keep up with his own imagination. He tended to tear into projects with more enthusiasm than forethought, which meant he spent three times as long patching whatever he’d damaged. Q was trying, discreetly, to break him of that instinct, but more than once he’d wondered if anyone would object to him ‘accidentally’ electrifying TJ’s keyboard to shock him if he typed too quickly. If that didn’t slow TJ down, it would at least introduce errors that would keep his code from compiling.

With a last grin, Boothroyd slapped a hand on the cubicle wall and wandered off to the next cube in the row. This was part of his Friday ritual, Q had learned: to check up on everyone outside any sort of formal meeting.

Really, working at MI6 appealed to Q’s interfering nature. Q was good at designing systems, but his true strength was in _improving_ them. There was power in the MI6 computers, power that was currently either unused or doing little more than running in pointless circles. Given a year and free rein, he could turn TSS, at least, into something unbelievable. No more disparate intel coming from four different departments — often with conflicting analyses — to send the field agents scurrying in three false directions just to cover all possibilities.

Of course, it helped that Q had no morals at all when it came to information thievery. He saw no reason to _do_ all the work when someone else — say, the French DGSE — had already done it for him. More than once, while keeping an eye on Bond, he’d subtly, anonymously ensured that outsourced information made its way to Intentions  & Analysis. He did the same for Alec, on the assumption that Alec was _almost_ his owner’s brother, and deserving of at least a little protection. Besides, now that he’d got to know Alec better, he was relieved that Alec hadn’t shot him on sight at hospital.

Boothroyd’s appearance was generally a sign that TSS members were free to go for the day. Slowly, people filtered out, some of them stopping by Q’s cubicle to chat or invite him out. Apparently there was a birthday celebration for someone in Transport. And while Bond wouldn’t care one way or the other about socialising, Q’s idea of a decent bar had significantly more leather and less in the way of karaoke-singing office clerks.

He went back to his database work, though he reopened the eavesdropping program. When most of the cubes were empty, he put on his headset — comms weren’t always reliable, and he could hear better with over-the-ear headphones — and he idly listened in on the field support team that was feeding Bond intel.

Most of what went out to a field operative was heavily filtered, distilled down to only the most essential intel, as best the team could determine at the time. Q had been trying to figure out a system to automate those decisions, but there were too many factors. Too much risk that if the system was compromised, lives could be lost.

He was just starting to think about the database front end when he heard someone — a local intelligence officer, he suspected — say, “Stay in pursuit. The tunnel is clear.”

 _Tunnel? What tunnel?_ Q wondered, closing his eyes to concentrate. There weren’t any tunnels near Bond, were there?

Trains? Sewers? He took a deep breath, wondering why _tunnel_ bothered him so much. He half-listened to Bond’s acknowledgement, apprehension crawling up and down his spine.

 _Caves_.

Immediately, he remembered what he’d read two nights ago, on a tourism website. Spelunking. A cave of crystals being explored by the local university.

Where Bond’s target worked.

Connections snapped into place. Without thinking, he pulled off his headset, shoved his chair back hard enough to tip it over, and bolted right for the field team collaboration rooms at the far end of the hall.

The door wasn’t locked, thankfully — too many analysts and techs coming and going, fetching tea and running to the loo. Q pulled open the door and shouted, “It’s a trap. Call 007 back.”

Fortunately, it was Ms Marsh who responded before any of the startled techs could so much as blink. She took one look at Q and then put a hand to her earpiece, saying, “Abort, 007.” Then, as her eyes never left Q, she said, “You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself. Return to base.”

Then she walked right for Q, who backed away, realising just what he’d done. At best, he’d get sacked from MI6 and end up with his contract dropped. If he was lucky, Bond wouldn’t kill him. If he was even luckier, he wouldn’t get arrested for the security violation.

Ms Marsh stepped out into the hall and closed the door at her back, silencing the murmurs of the field support team. She fixed Q with a stare over her reading glasses. “Explain.”

Q took a deep breath, thankful for the training that let him deal with tense situations — even ones of his own creation — and said, “007’s target works at the university, ma’am. The ‘tunnel’ must have been part of the cave system just discovered beneath what was to be a new parking garage. The university currently has rights to investigate the tunnels — it’s closed to anyone else. But that means it’s very likely that the target has _his_ people there, waiting.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Based on what?”

“He ran into a closed tunnel system, rather than staying on the streets. He’d never let 007 corner him like that, ma’am.”

Ms Marsh slowly nodded. Then she held up a hand, gesturing him to silence, and touched her earpiece again. “Bond? Report.”

Q couldn’t hear Bond’s response, but the fact that there _was_ a response at least meant he was alive.

“Excellent,” she finally said. “I’ll explain it all shortly. You have Q to thank, not me.” Then, after another pause, she added, “No, I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” And as she lowered her hand, she said, “My office, Q. Now.”

 

~~~

 

**Saturday, 16 October 2010**

The cafe was rich with the warm smell of coffee and fresh pastries. The seats were comfortable, the music soft. None of it did anything to help ease Q’s worries. He huddled in his seat, hands cupped around a wide ceramic mug of mostly-untouched coffee.

“You look like shit. What’s wrong?” Z asked, taking the seat across from Q. Never a morning person, Z looked like he’d rolled out of bed and put on whatever clothes were at hand. Under his long black trenchcoat, studded with spikes at the shoulders and silver-buckled straps up the front, Q saw an inside-out blood-red T-shirt and old blue jeans. Both were covered with black and white dog fur.

“I...” Q faltered, looking down into his drink. He felt as horrid as Z looked. He hadn’t slept at all last night, caught up in uncertainty and fear.

Gently, Z took away the coffee cup and grasped his hands, holding tight. “Q,” he said quietly. “Who the fuck needs to disappear? Did James do something?”

“No.” Q took a breath and immediately regretted it. The cafe was rich with the aroma of pastries and coffee, but the thought of food turned his stomach. “I got caught, Z. Hacking MI6.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Z breathed, frowning. “ _Outside_ your work there?”

Q nodded, wanting to curl up in his brother’s arms and hide — which was a reversal. _He’d_ always been the strong one for Z, the one protecting Z against their parents and the world at large, until Z found his own footing. And then Q had gone off to school in America and Z had just _gone_ , and they’d managed to turn out all right.

Now, though, all Q could imagine was that he was either going to end up in prison or an international fugitive. And if prison didn’t kill him, he’d never be allowed to touch a computer again, and that _would_ kill him.

“Hey. Hey, Q,” Z coaxed worriedly. “Talk to me, brother.”

Q dragged in a breath. “James is out of the country. On a mission. I was eavesdropping on their communications, and I heard something, so I interfered. I knew — I _thought_ he was heading into a trap, so I told them — his team — and they called him back, but... God, I don’t know why they didn’t arrest me on the spot.”

Z’s hands clenched painfully tight. “Fuck.”

Q’s laugh was humourless and broken. “They suspended me, pending an investigation. If I’m lucky, they’ll find I was right. I — I’d still be in trouble, but maybe not as much.”

“Okay, no,” Z said sharply. “Fucking _no_. I can get you out of the country. I can _erase_ you. Fuck, between us, we can destroy their evidence —”

“Z, no,” Q interrupted. His brother’s unconditional support was a comfort, but he couldn’t get Z into trouble over this, too. “No. James — I can’t leave him.”

“Because he’s your owner?” Z asked a bit too loudly, drawing glances from the other patrons in the cafe.

Hiding a flinch, Q dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “Because I’m not running out on him.”

“The only reason you’re in trouble is because of him. The only reason you’re even at MI-fucking-six is because of him,” Z whispered back furiously. “Fucking hell, Q, it’s one thing to belong to him; it’s something else to _go to prison_ for him!”

Q shook his head, knowing that he couldn’t. He’d risk a lot for Bond — it was a matter of honour and more — but not that. “If... _If_ it... goes that way...”

Z let out a breath. “Okay.” He nodded, some of the tension leaving his posture. “Okay. You just let me know. I’ll help.”

“Thank you.” Q let go of one hand and picked up his coffee cup, feeling a little better. Between him and Z, there wasn’t anything they couldn’t do — including stopping MI6. If necessary, they could shut MI6 down, from the lobby to the most secure labs in TSS, to buy Q time to escape. But that was a last resort.

“Okay,” Z repeated, waiting until Q took a drink of his coffee before he took away the cup. He eyed it suspiciously, sipped, and then put it down. “Black? The fuck?”

Q licked his lips and blinked at the coffee cup. “I... God.” He let out another soft laugh, raking his hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember if he’d combed it that morning or not.

Sympathetically, Z rose and took the coffee cup. He put his free hand on Q’s shoulder before he went to the counter.

Ignoring table manners, Q put his elbows on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. Just telling Z a little of what had happened made him feel better.

Z returned with two fresh coffees, both covered with frothed milk and chocolate shavings, along with a plate of mixed pastries. He set one of the coffees in front of Q and put the plate in the middle of the table. “Eat.”

Q smiled and picked up an iced bun. “I thought I was supposed to be telling you that.”

“Yeah, well, for once you’re the one who’s got himself in trouble with the authorities.” Z smiled wryly and took one of the brownies. “My turn to take care of you.”

“Thank you.” Q nibbled tentatively at one edge of the bun. When it didn’t immediately make him feel ill, he took a bigger bite.

“Right, so that’s MI6 sorted. What about James?” Z asked, his voice carefully neutral. “Is he going to do anything to you for this?”

Q huffed and licked crumbs off his lips. “No. At least, probably not,” he conceded, though the chances were minimal. “You’d think looking at him that he has a fierce temper, but not towards me.”

Z’s eyes narrowed. “Is that good or bad?”

After another bite, Q shrugged. “Put it this way. He doesn’t even own a riding crop.”

Surprised, Z said, “That’s...”

“Boring?”

Z gave a little nod. “Well, yeah. Though in the circumstances...”

“He’s _nice_ ,” Q said, feeling obliged to come to Bond’s defence. And it was true. However ruthless he was out in the field, he was nothing but kind and courteous to Q. Even when things began to get rough between them, he was still careful and gentle. He laughed at Q’s mistakes and never spoke harshly to him. It was _nice_.

It was also confusing as hell.

“Nice,” Z repeated. “Since when do you want ‘nice’?”

“Would ‘reasonable’ be better?”

“Since when do you want that, either?” Z shook his head. “I don’t get it, Q. What the fuck kind of relationship do you have?”

Q put down the half-eaten bun. “I —”

“Oh, fucking shit,” Z cut in. “You’re in love with him,” he accused.

“So what if I am?” Q said defensively.

“Because you don’t want a fucking _boyfriend_ , remember? Fucking hell, you talked _me_ through this when we were seventeen and that bitch broke up with me.”

“I can’t help how I feel,” Q said sullenly. He rubbed his hand across his eyes, only to flinch away from the sugar that dusted off his fingertips. Irritated, he brushed the sugar away, saying, “It’s not _bad_ , what we have.”

“It’s just not what you want.”

“It’s what _he_ wants, which is the whole point.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Z challenged. “You’re looking at going to jail for this bastard —”

“Z,” Q cut in, staring across the table.

Surprised, Z met his eyes. He sat back slowly and let out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he surrendered. “As long as you’re happy.”

Q reached out and took Z’s hand gratefully. “I suppose we’ll find out.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Monday, 18 October 2010**

Bond could tell that something was off the moment he walked into TSS. His relationship with the branch had evolved slightly since Q had started working there; his visits to pick up, drop off, or just have lunch with Q when he was in town meant that he knew more of the techs by name than any of the other Double O’s. Despite that, the techs usually avoided him; the reputation of the Double O’s was enough to make them skittish. Today was worse than normal, making Bond wonder what he’d missed.

“Did a new version of Windows just come out, or is there some other reason your techs all look like they’re bracing for bad news?” Bond asked with a smirk when he entered Danielle’s office.

“Oh, good heavens, Bond, don’t you ever knock?” she asked, pulling off the glasses she wore for computer work.

Bond held up his hands defensively, showing off his torn and bloody knuckles. He hadn’t bothered to stop by Medical on his way in, so the blood was still clinging impressively to his skin. “Sorry, ma’am. Afraid that’s a very unpleasant proposition indeed.”

“You and Trevelyan,” she muttered, pointing to the visitor’s chair. “I take it you haven’t been to M’s office? No, of course not. Why on earth should you ever follow protocol? Tell me, Bond, were you brawling with the RAF or did you skip _their_ Medical in your haste to return? Didn’t the aeroplane at least have a kit of plasters?” she asked, all in rapid-fire, as she sorted through her desk drawers. She took out an impressively large first aid kit, which she set down on the far side of the desk, giving him an expectant look.

“It was just a friendly game of rugby while we waited for the transport,” he protested. “What’s going on here?”

“There was a security breach on your last mission,” she said, her voice going absolutely, professionally neutral. “Our communications were compromised.”

“What happened?” Bond asked, watching her warily. If there had been a breach from a hacker or other outside interference, Danielle would both sound more angry and be busy tracking it down. He thought uncomfortably about Q’s life-saving assist and wondered if that had anything to do with it. He’d long suspected that Q kept an eye on him while he was in the field in an effort to keep his promise to help keep Bond safe, but they’d never talked about it.

“A staffer without sufficient clearance was found to be monitoring our communications — both internal to the support teams and external, with our field operatives. Specifically, you and 006.” Danielle regarded Bond steadily.

Bond ruthlessly suppressed the urge to smile. Alec, too? Bond was under the impression that Q didn’t like Alec very much, so he was exceptionally pleased with Q’s extra attention. Except, of course, that he’d done the unthinkable and somehow got caught. “I see,” he said calmly.

“At Major Boothroyd’s insistence, Q has been suspended on full pay, rather than arrested.”

Bond nodded, making a mental note to personally thank Boothroyd for his intervention. Bond knew that Boothroyd favoured Q for many reasons, not the least of which was Q’s ability to be exactly whatever the Major needed him to be: engineer, troubleshooter, programmer, or even the tech support expert who helped Boothroyd with his email.

“Is there to be an investigation?” he asked. A lot of people owed him favours, but the earlier he started cashing them in, the better.

“There already has been.” Danielle leaned back in her chair, regarding Bond across the expanse of her desk. Her eyes flicked significantly to the still-untouched first aid kit. “He saved your life, James.”

“Will that be taken into account?” Bond asked as he reached across to the kit. He pulled out a packet of alcohol wipes, but didn’t open them yet. He didn’t want to spend time in this office, talking to Danielle, speculating idly on Q’s fate. He wanted to leave so he could talk to Q. Have his hands tended to by Q.

“I’m certain that the primary reason he’s not in custody is the fact that we were able to corroborate his analysis — which took several hours, rather than the handful of seconds, apparently, that Q required to come to the correct conclusion. If you’d followed your target into that cave, they would have been bringing you out in a teapot,” she said, allowing a hint of parental worry to creep into her voice.

“Perhaps this should be taken as a sign that he should be promoted, not arrested or fired,” Bond hinted. He knew that Q was only here in service to Bond, not necessarily because he found the work fulfilling. And though Q hadn’t actually complained about his assignments, Bond was relatively certain that he found database work tedious.

Danielle’s frown turned disapproving. “That’s between Major Boothroyd and M. I suggest if you want to keep M, at least, in a chipper mood, you visit both the Executive Branch and Medical.”

Bond’s sigh was deep and heartfelt. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing. “Thank you.”

“And James?” she said, also standing. When he turned back, she gave him a sympathetic smile and said, “He doesn’t strike me as the type to need flowers, but for god’s sake, at least take a bloody shower before you go home looking like that.”

Bond grinned. “Thank you for your advice, ma’am.” With a nod, he turned to leave. He’d head for the showers, change into his spare suit, and do the exec branch dance just to do whatever he could for Q.

As he headed downstairs for the showers by the sparring rooms and exercise equipment, he wondered for the first time how Q was handling all of this.

On one hand, the only reason Q worked for MI6 was because Bond had all but told him to. At first, on the boat, Bond had got him clearance to assist with his investigation of Kolya because it made sense. But requests for clearance on any successive missions would have caused raised eyebrows. Bond felt much more comfortable getting Q actual clearance rather than allowing him to test his theory that he'd never get caught by doing it illegally.

On the other hand, Bond had requested — which, in Q’s world, meant _ordered_ — Q to work for MI6. Getting himself fired, even to save Bond’s life, went against that command. Bond doubted he would be repentant about it, but he would still be expecting Bond to...

To what? Bond was getting better at being the man Q wanted him to be. He'd taken Alec's advice and started falling back into some of the natural rhythm of giving orders to subordinates, though he couldn't quite bring himself to use the same harsh tones he'd used with young sailors and new recruits. But punishment was something he couldn't bring himself to do. Rough sex? Absolutely. But not physical punishment. Besides, Q had never done anything that warranted punishment — not even this, at least in Bond’s opinion.

Q had said his service was enough. He'd said, ‘Whatever makes you happy’. And Bond could almost believe it, until he'd remember the relaxed, even languid way Q had moved and the softness to his smile the morning after he’d been with someone else on the ship six months ago. The last time he’d been truly, completely satisfied. Now, the sex was good — good enough that Bond knew Q enjoyed it — but it wasn’t perfect. And, damn his own instinct, Bond couldn't be satisfied if Q wasn't.

It was the worst bloody paradox Bond had ever tried to solve.

But despite their incompatibilities, Q continued to serve him and care for him. And now, Q had put himself at incredible risk, all for him. While Bond couldn’t punish his perceived failings, he could reward that sort of incredible sacrifice.

During Bond’s last trip to Mexico, he’d had enough time between the completion of his mission and his extraction to spend some time in the local craftsmen’s bartering areas. The sight of a silversmith creating a chainmaille necklace had completely caught his attention. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it was strong. He’d haggled with the craftsman and tested the strength of the necklace while he was there, and it proved sturdy enough to withstand even his hardest, repeated yanks and pulls.

He’d bought one — a choker-sized necklace, perfect as a collar — on the spot.

Back in London, he’d found a small, strong silver lock to keep the woven silver secure. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he’d found his old identity tags and taken them and the necklace to a jeweller to have the tags mounted on a ring, like a pendant. With the lock hidden by Q’s long, soft hair, the collar would look like nothing more than a necklace any lover might wear.

There hadn’t seemed to be a good time to give it to Q. It felt like something special, replacing the Marketplace’s standard issue collar with one of his own design and effort, and Bond hadn’t found a reason for it. Until now.

Bond unlocked his locker and opened the door. His eyes were drawn down to the manila envelope on the bottom shelf. It was a gift and a symbol, and something he’d held onto for far too long.

Smiling softly, he picked up the envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The moment had come.

 

~~~

 

Before Bond had done more than unlock the door to his flat — to their flat — Q had the door open. “Welcome home, James,” he said in that calm, unreadable way of his, stepping aside. As soon as Bond was inside, Q closed the door and reached for Bond’s coat.

Bond found himself relaxing under Q's attention. Despite his misgivings, he’d found it easy to allow Q to tend to him, without any expectation of reciprocity. The comforts he offered were subtle — taking Bond’s coat, offering him a drink or a cigarette — and there was no hint of discontent. If Bond joined him in the kitchen to help make dinner or wash up afterwards, Q accepted his presence just as easily as he did Bond’s absence on those nights when Bond wanted to sit on the balcony or lie on the couch instead. And if his ability to read Bond and predict his needs had been impressive that first week they’d been together, now it was almost intimidating, as if he knew what Bond was thinking or feeling even before Bond himself did.

"Thank you, Q," he responded easily, a small smile on his face as he felt the tension ease from his shoulders. As Q put his coat away, Bond toed off his shoes before he left the foyer for the couch. "Coffee, please."

“Yes, James.” He turned to hang up Bond’s coat.

As Bond sat down, he heard Q pick up his shoes and head for the kitchen. He’d learned that efficiency was important to Q; he’d stop in the kitchen to start the water heating before continuing to the bedroom to put away Bond’s shoes. If it had been raining, he might return with a towel that had been warming over the heating vent in the bathroom. On Thursdays, when Bond was often kept late dealing with M for an intelligence briefing, he would bring scotch. At first, it had always been neat. Then, as the city broiled under the weight of a hot, wet summer, Q had started adding one or two cubes of perfectly clear ice. Now, he’d gone back to pouring it neat. No matter what, he never took more than five minutes to return to Bond’s side.

Bond sat on the couch and took the envelope from his jacket. He set it on the couch and relaxed into the soft cushions that he'd never admit to Alec were far more preferable to his first selection. He hadn't been badly injured after this mission, which was a nice change, but Q would still want to undress him and check for any wounds that needed tending. But first, they had to talk about what had happened. Once it was out of the way, Bond could give Q his gift, and they could spend the rest of the evening in bed with nothing hanging over their heads.

Just under five minutes later, Q walked in with a cup of coffee. Though he hadn’t been to the office, he wore a button-down shirt, open at the throat to show his locked chain collar, and dark trousers. He set the coffee on the end table nearest to Bond, along with one of the ashtrays stored in a drawer for when Bond felt like smoking inside. Bond knew that if he took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, Q would be right there to light it for him.

Despite knowing that Marketplace training had conditioned Q to kneel either at Bond's feet or somewhere out of the way, Bond nearly always insisted Q sit next to him — sometimes in his lap, other times just rubbing shoulders. More than just being uncomfortable with the thought of making Q kneel, he preferred to indulge in his freedom of touch. Something about Q's body language — the lack of tension, the lack of fear, the calm heartbeat — was deeply addictive, and some nights the memory of it was all that allowed Bond to fall asleep in some of the darker corners of the world. But tonight he wanted something different, so he awkwardly gestured at the floor between his legs, hoping Q would understand.

After six months, Bond had learned to spot the subtlest of hints as to Q’s real thoughts and feelings. Now, the faintest widening of his eyes betrayed what Bond thought was surprise, rather than fear. Q stepped in front of him and knelt, facing him rather than turned away to lean against the sofa or his legs. As if by instinct or habit, Q put his hands behind his back and looked down, head bowed just slightly.

Bond carefully balanced the coffee on the arm of the couch with one hand and used the other to run through Q's hair. "I'm so very glad you're not in jail," he said honestly. "I'll have to think of something very, very nice to do for Boothroyd."

“I’m sorry to cause you any complications, James,” Q said softly.

“By living up to your promise to keep me safe?” Bond chuckled. “I’m strangely not worried about the complications. But let’s just start from the top, shall we? What happened, exactly?”

Q paused for just a moment before answering, as he always did. The only time he spoke without careful forethought was when he was aroused and needy and desperate. “I was monitoring the team supporting you in the field. As soon as I heard the instruction for you to go into the tunnel, I realised it had to be a trap. I told Ms Marsh to call you back out.”

“You _told_ Danielle,” Bond repeated, hand pausing in Q’s hair. “Even I’ve never _told_ Danielle to do anything. I’m impressed.” Equally impressive, of course, was the fact that Danielle hadn’t shut him down immediately. Q must have been both forceful and earnest for her to listen. Bond tried to picture it. “I’m very grateful, Q, but you could be fired for this. Worse, you could be arrested.”

Q tensed, subtly but just enough for Bond to notice. “Yes, James. I apologise.”

He reached down to tip Q’s chin up. “You’re young and brilliant. If the choice is between the two of us, I’d rather you picked your self-preservation over me,” he said quietly, internally berating himself for not making that clear earlier. Whether it was challenging Alec or putting himself on the line at MI6, Q’s instinct was clearly to serve his owner with no care for his own future.

“I did that, James,” Q said, meeting Bond’s eyes for the first time.

Bond raised his eyebrow in surprise. "Oh?" he asked, trying to follow Q's logic but coming up short. "Explain."

“The job at MI6 can be interesting sometimes, and I don’t mind helping England, but I belong to _you_. I won’t allow anything to happen to you, if I can prevent it, no matter the cost. I’m only sorry it’s inconvenienced and upset you.”

Bond didn't bother to hide his surprise. Q was taking a very broad interpretation of Bond's order to keep himself safe by suggesting Bond's life was more important than avoiding possible incarceration, especially since he'd admitted to Bond the idea of jail was terrifying.

More than that was the unrepentant determination in Q's gaze. He wasn't sorry in the slightest for getting himself in trouble — he only seemed remorseful for whatever problems it would cause Bond. It wasn't mindless disobedience; it was a decision made in spite of Bond's order to do elsewise. If it hadn’t been so worrying, Bond would have grinned at Q's spark of ferocity.

"I'm not inconvenienced," Bond said with a sigh. "And you'd do it again, despite my ordering you not to place yourself on the line like that, wouldn't you?"

“I would never disobey you without reason, James.”

With a sigh at the genius of an answer — exactly the sort of answer Bond could _never_ argue with — he let go of Q's chin and started petting his hair again. "If it's a choice between getting fired or me, I have absolutely no objection to your choosing me. Your loyalty means more to me than..." Bond broke off, covering the crack in his voice with a sip of his coffee. It meant more to Bond than anything, really, except perhaps Alec and his own service to England. But they had a time limit. Q would be gone eventually. "But your being thrown in jail would be unfortunate. Of course, I've never had to break someone out of a British prison. It could be an interesting challenge.”

“Please, don’t put yourself at risk for me, James. It isn’t necessary.” Q looked back down and took a deep breath. “Their... inattention would have cost you your life.”

"But it didn’t. You were there for me."

“I’ll do my best to keep it from happening again,” Q said, the faintest sharp edge coming into his voice. “There are ways we can communicate without needing the rest of your field support team, whether from here or if MI6 takes me back, if you’ll permit it.”

Bond stood, tucking the envelope under his arm. "I am one selfish fucking bastard, Q. Which is why I absolutely permit it. Just don't get caught. I have plenty of contacts who owe me favours, and I'm exceptionally good at disappearing, but it would be terribly inconvenient." He reached down to tug Q up by his collar. Q’s breath caught as he knelt up, almost falling off balance with his hands still clasped behind his back. "Now, I think it's time for your reward, don't you?"

“Anything you’d like, James,” Q said, struggling not to fall. Bond gripped Q by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet, and then took hold of the collar and led him to the bedroom.

 

~~~

 

In the six months Q had lived with Bond, he’d been tied up a dozen times or more, though it was always simple. The cuffs purchased on the ship were most common, though occasionally Bond would use a tie, if they never made it out of the living room after coming home from work.

Q had found the rope a month ago, coils of it neatly stacked in a cupboard full of a magpie’s treasures. He suspected it was for climbing, both because of the colour and the carabiners kept with it. He’d never expected to be wearing it.

Apparently, Bond had other ideas. And he’d been studying or even practicing, because he put that rope unhesitatingly to use. Q knelt in the middle of the room’s black throw rug, arms behind his back, bound wrist-to-elbow, with his forearms parallel to the floor. He couldn’t extend his arms; the ropes were woven through loops circling around his upper arms and chest, just tight enough that he could feel the scratchy fibres dig into his skin with every breath.

It was good. It wasn’t complete, but it was tight and he couldn’t get at any of the knots and it was _new_. Unpredictable.

He’d spent three days trying not to worry about what would happen when Bond came home — not out of fear of punishment, but out of fear of _not_ being punished. Out of fear that Bond would instead fall back on the soft world standby of false comfort, ‘talking it through’, and then hiding his resentment. And it seemed, for a little while, that that was exactly what was going to happen. Bond had been supportive and understanding and, in the end, had approved of Q’s decision.

But now Q was kneeling on the rug, being tied, with Bond working steadily, quietly, and with an intensity Q hadn’t felt from him since his possessive reaction to Green Eyes’ handling of him. It wasn’t just sex. It was something else.

With one last tug of ropes, Bond crouched in front of Q and grabbed his chin to pull his face up, forcing Q to meet his eyes. “You did very, very well, Q. You chose _me_. _Me_ , over MI6. _Me_ , over the potential for jail, which I know terrifies you. _Me_ , over whatever you might have expected me to do to punish you.” He let go of Q’s chin and slid his hand to the back of Q’s neck, dragging upward until he had Q’s hair wrapped around his fingers. Then he gave a brutally hard tug. “But as Danielle said, you aren’t the type to enjoy flowers. So I had to think of something else.”

 _Something else?_ Q wondered. Bond had talked to Danielle. Flowers. Approval, then, not punishment. Q stared up into Bond’s eyes, trying to read him, to stay a step ahead, just as he’d been trained. Sex was Q’s weakness, though; at some point, all of his training broke down under desire and need. And instead of teaching Q to get past it, Chris had turned it into a trait with market value. Instead of giving Q uncertain self-control, Chris had frayed that control even more, to the point where almost anything — including the sort of light bondage that had once bored Q to tears — was enough to make him struggle to think.

And the fact that it was _Bond_ didn’t help. Bond didn’t want the trained phrases that came so easily to Q. He wanted discourse, to hear Q’s opinion and actual thoughts and feelings. Full disclosure. But he _didn’t_ want Q to beg for anything more than sexual release. Once — _once_ — Q had slipped and begged Bond to use him however he wanted, and the subtle way Bond went tense, not quite flinching, had shocked Q right out of his headspace more effectively than a bucket of ice water.

“What did you decide, James?” he asked after an inexcusably long three seconds passed.

“It took me a while, because torture is part of my job description, but I did eventually remember that there are ways to give you what you want without actually damaging you.” Bond smiled and stood. “And there’s something else, too, but I won’t give it to you until you’re ready.” He kept a light hand on Q’s shoulder, but stepped out of sight, reaching for something on the end of the bed. When he moved back in front of Q, he was holding a lighter and a tall, narrow candle.

Q watched, automatically remembering past play with hot wax, which led to him remembering playing with actual fire, on the edge between enough and too much. He’d been fortunate not to end up scarred, but god, that had been _brilliant_. He’d only done it the one time as part of a demonstration, before he’d found the Marketplace — back when he’d started taking stupid risks to try and find anything like the satisfaction he thought he needed.

He told himself that this was enough. This was Bond being generous and considerate, forgiving the way Q had so thoroughly managed to get himself in trouble at work. As vanilla as a little wax play was, Bond thought it was what Q wanted. A reward — something a bit more intense, in a way, than what they’d done to date. He just wished he knew if it was what _Bond_ wanted.

“You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do, James.”

“Six months together, Q. Have you ever seen me do anything with you I don’t want to do?” Bond asked with a wry smile. He lit the candle and set it aside. Then he moved behind Q, out of sight. Q concentrated, marking the rattle of Bond’s belt buckle, the soft whisper of his flies, the sound of each piece of clothing as he undressed. A few minutes later, Bond knelt on the rug behind Q and reached around to run his nails down Q’s front, pressing hard enough to leave raised marks, until the rope over Q’s chest stopped him. Then he took hold of Q’s hips and leaned in to bite his jaw.

The sharp, sudden sting of nails and teeth helped Q push aside his concern. This was familiar and comfortable and good for them both — part of the fragile balance they’d found, between two extremes. Q pressed into the pain, closing his eyes for just a moment, and he thought about offering to skip the wax play altogether so he could show how glad he was that Bond had come back safe from his last mission.

The rough, possessive kiss was Bond’s favourite way to say he was glad to be home. But Q was surprised by the brutal bite to his bottom lip and another tug on his hair, pulling his head all the way back against Bond’s shoulder. Then Bond reached around to his strained chest and pulled and twisted at his right nipple, sending razor-sharp lines of pain sparking out from the nails digging into his flesh. Q couldn’t help but fight the ropes; he only realised he was biting his lip when he tasted blood.

The pain _hurt_ — and then it didn’t, fading into a burn that left Q whimpering not when Bond pinched and twisted but when he stopped, because Q wanted more. With dizzying speed, he’d gone from vaguely interested to desperate, and he leaned back against Bond’s body, fingers reaching, straining to touch.

Bond only stopped long enough to switch from the right to the left, scratching and teasing every last bit of hurt that he could from Q with just his hands. Then, apparently remembering that he could do more than just use his free hand, Bond twisted and pulled at Q’s hair again, even though Q couldn’t move his head any further back. Bond moved his mouth forward across Q’s neck, dragging his teeth as he went, until he bit, deliciously hard over Q’s Adam’s apple, timing it with a sharp twist of his nipple.

“James,” Q said, his voice thin and tight, need searing through him. He twisted his wrists again, skin coming alive under the scratchy climbing rope. He tried to move back, spreading his legs as best he could, hoping to spark Bond’s interest in moving things along. His imagination painted the vivid image of Bond just pushing him forward, off-balance and helpless, and fucking him hard. It wouldn’t take much preparation at all. None, in fact. The burn would make it that much better.

But then Bond hummed in approval and his hand left Q’s nipple. Q couldn’t see what Bond was doing from where his head was trapped between Bond’s mouth and his shoulder, but he could feel Bond’s arm moving. Moments later, stinging heat hit his chest, searing into his left nipple. Q gasped, surprised, and twisted against the tight ropes as the trickles of hot wax moved to the right. Instinctively, he tried to pull away, pressing closer against Bond’s body. For once, Bond didn’t back off or apologise — he pushed Q back into the sporadic touch of the fire, a low hum of approval vibrating through his throat.

He was enjoying this. Q bit his lip hard, the sting adding to the fog that pushed at his thoughts. Bond was doing this for Q, but also for himself.

“James. Please, James,” Q gasped out, leaning back even more, exposing himself for whatever Bond wanted to do. It was no longer about getting fucked or even getting off, but about the absolute need to surrender. He tried to show it with every twitch and breath and gasp, holding back none of his reactions.

“Fuck, yes,” Bond growled out before biting Q’s shoulder excruciatingly hard for one perfect moment. Then Bond shuddered and thrust up against Q’s body, his hard cock sliding against Q’s arse and lower back. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” It was a lie and it wasn’t, but Q knew his limits. He knew precisely how much he could take, and he knew that wanting Bond inside him this much did more to help him relax than any more conventional foreplay ever could. “Yes, James. Please, fuck me.”

“That’s not the ‘ready’ I’m asking about,” Bond replied, his voice harsh. He tipped the candle again, and more wax ran down Q’s chest, splashing and pooling against the ropes before it spilled over in cooling trails down his abdomen. “I have something to give you, remember? But you have to earn it.”

Remember? Q could barely concentrate, much less _remember_ anything. He closed his eyes tightly again, trying to think, because Bond wouldn’t want to hear any of the formulas he could recite in any state, whether half-asleep or entirely out of his mind with lust and need. It went against every instinct for him to finally say, “Please, tell me how.”

To his dismay, Bond stood and set the candle down. Wax cooled and cracked on Q’s skin, pulling with sharp little stings as he panted for breath. Bond twisted a hand into Q’s hair and pulled backwards so he could look down into Q’s eyes, searching for long silent moments before he finally nodded. “You’ve earned it.”

 _Anything_ , Q thought silently as Bond released him and moved out of Q’s sight. Q gasped for breath and bowed his head, closing his eyes as the wax cracked and fell free from his skin. He listened to Bond moving around for a few moments. Then he returned, and Q remembered to tip his head up to meet Bond’s gaze, as he preferred.

Bond didn’t do anything at first; he just stared down into Q’s eyes with something more intense than simple affection. Then he reached down and, for the first time, actually unlocked Q’s collar, the one he’d been wearing since the night Bond had purchased him on the ship six months ago. Q couldn’t help his flinch as Bond pulled the body-warm chain free.

The thought that this had all been an elaborate dismissal was ridiculous, but Q couldn’t stop himself. He’d seen owners do much more cruel, even vicious things, especially to someone who’d fallen out of favour. Bond wasn’t like that, though.

And damn it all, it _hurt_ just thinking it. For months, he’d tried to keep Chris’ words in mind, to focus on the service instead of his feelings for Bond. In a way it had worked. But now, the thought that Bond might send him away was like a knife to his chest.

But then Bond’s hands were warm around his throat again. Q didn’t have even a moment to analyse the feeling before something new was slipped around his neck — something heavy, and solid, and _different_ from what he’d been wearing for so long now.

“It’s perfect for you. For me.” The sound of a lock snapping shut hit Q’s ears, followed by the feeling of a weight resting in the hollow of his throat. Bond’s hand drifted over the slight weight of something hanging from the front of the collar; the light sound of metal hitting metal burned its way through Q’s consciousness. “Now no one will ever question that you belong to me,” Bond said roughly.

Q let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, pushing against the hand resting on his shoulder, fighting his own awkward balance with his hands bound. He bowed his head and rubbed his face against Bond’s leg, trying and failing to find words to express how he felt. From the beginning, this contract had never been Bond’s idea. Q knew Bond would have preferred for Q to ask for his release and then stay willingly — to date and make demands of his own and live an ordinary life with him. But they both also knew that they wouldn’t last a month like that before the restlessness set in. Q couldn’t change who he was inside, and he’d sworn never to try and do that to himself again.

But this — he’d never expected Bond to treat a collar with any significance. During sex, Bond would pull on it or use it to move Q however he wanted. Sometimes, when they were sitting together, he might play with the links. Otherwise, Bond preferred to pretend the collar didn’t exist and that Q wore his shirts buttoned to the throat, ties neatly snugged up, out of fashion rather than discretion.

But now, Bond couldn’t seem to keep his hands off the collar. It wasn’t just some symbol imposed by an outside force, an institution that Bond regarded warily on the best days. Now, it was something personal, a mark Bond himself had chosen.

As if reading Q’s thoughts, Bond touched whatever was attached to the collar. Then he pulled Q by the hair to meet his eyes again. “My identity tags,” he declared, dispassionate voice completely at odds with his intense expression.

“Thank you, James,” Q whispered, kneeling up as best he could, straining to get closer to Bond despite the hand in his hair.

Bond leaned down and kissed him, using his grip on the collar and Q’s hair to hold him still while he viciously claimed Q’s mouth. Then he let go long enough to circle behind Q, staying close enough to keep their skin in constant contact. Q heard the sound of Bond shuffling in the box an instant before he was shoved down, face first, onto the carpet.

Q’s mind shattered, dissolving into a thoughtless litany of _yes_ and _more_ and _please_ that he couldn’t articulate. He spread his legs out of habit and closed his eyes to better feel everything. The new collar was a heavy, unfamiliar weight on the back of his neck. The tags were like ice on the underside of his jaw.

Bond didn’t follow him down immediately, and Q heard the tear of a condom wrapper and the click of a lubricant bottle’s cap. Then he was over Q, breath hot in his ear, pushing in slowly but without any preparation. “You chose me,” Bond said quietly. “Over yourself. Over MI6. _Me._ ”

Gasping for breath against the ropes tight around his chest, Q tried to answer, but he couldn’t. He pushed back, ignoring the pain that felt better than it should have, and might have managed to plead for more, though he wasn’t sure. Of course he had chosen Bond. He would _always_ choose Bond.

Bond’s movements were slow and careful but utterly unapologetic. Arms wrapped around Q’s chest, he held him close and pinned as he fucked Q slowly, breath coming in hard pants with every hard thrust. He didn’t say anything else for long minutes as they rocked together on the floor, until — too quickly — Bond’s movements became faster and less controlled.

“You chose me,” Bond said one last time before he nipped the back of Q’s neck. Then wrapped his hand around Q’s cock. “Thank you.”

Q bit down on a cry and tried not to thrust against Bond’s hand, conscious of nothing but Bond, inside him and pressed to his back and holding him. _Wanting_ him. The new collar was already warmed to body temperature, but Q could feel it.

The combination was overwhelming in a way Q hadn’t felt for months, not this deep inside. A year, in fact, since the end of his last contract. He was wanted and held and claimed, and he would always make the same choice he had, because he belonged to Bond, entirely.

Bond groaned, voice low and almost lost to everything else. “God, Q. Fuck. Now — come now,” he gasped out as he thrust deep into him, muscles locking tight. He bit down on Q’s neck, scratching hard across his chest as he worked Q’s cock.

After six months, Bond knew him — his body, his mind, ways to find new paths to push Q to release. For six months, it had been nice and relaxing and easy, if a bit boring for Q’s tastes. It served to make _this_ all the more shocking and intense. Q’s surrender was complete, and it took no time at all before everything went white in a haze of pleasure. He heard and felt Bond’s own self-control crumble, but all he could do was struggle not to drop bonelessly under Bond’s weight.

Then Bond braced a hand on the carpet beside Q and slowly withdrew, and Q fuzzily remembered to say, “Thank you, James.”

Bond didn’t say anything, but tipped Q’s head to give him a slow, lazy kiss. He pulled away long enough to remove and discard the condom, then gently started unwrapping the ropes. Once they were free, he lifted Q off the floor to carry him over to the bed. He settled him gently on the mattress and pulled the duvet up around him. “Do you need anything besides a flannel?” he asked quietly.

A hint of discomfort crept through the pleasant haze, but it was familiar by now. “I can take care of it, James. If you want to rest, I can clean up and arrange dinner,” he said, though he didn’t try to get out of bed yet. That would lead to polite protests that never crossed over into being orders, leaving them both feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

“I have a better idea,” Bond said, crawling under the covers to lie next to Q. He pulled Q close and wrapped his arms around him, one hand tangling in the collar. “Use the sheet. You can replace them before we go to bed. And you can order takeaway. Later.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Sunday, 17 July 2011**

Q opened his eyes, wondering what had awakened him. It wasn’t quite dawn. The sky beyond the high windows was a deep charcoal grey, thick with clouds and rain. He knew it would be another muggy summer day, but the air conditioning in the flat had turned the bedroom arctic. He shivered just looking at it, and he burrowed deeper into the blankets, thinking he could just go back to sleep, when he heard a faint noise out in the living room.

The jolt of adrenaline didn’t come on a wave of fear, but rather exasperation. Living with a spy, he’d learned, meant that unexpected scares were suddenly the norm. It was occasionally like living in a bloodless horror movie.

Still, he wasn’t one to take chances. He reached out, moving so silently that the mattress didn’t even creak, and slid open the bedside table drawer. In a fit of boredom a month ago, he’d actually waxed the drawer slides. It opened noiselessly.

Only when he had his revolver in his grasp did he ease himself out of the bed. Then he turned for the door and gasped, seeing a silhouette standing there. Q started to lift the gun before the intruder moved forward, into the faint light coming through the windows.

“Good morning,” Bond said, glancing at the revolver.

A sense of failure, excitement, and irritation hit all at once. Why hadn’t he told Q he was coming back? Last Q had heard, Bond wasn’t scheduled to fly back to London for at least a week.

Feeling ridiculous, he said, “Good morning, James,” as he put away the gun.

Bond walked up to Q, still tense with his usual after-mission comedown. He looked predatory and hyperaware, but didn’t seem to be carrying any particular darkness that meant the mission had gone terribly. He stopped bare inches from Q, then held still, raising his eyebrow.

After being with Bond for over a year, Q felt no particular instinct to drop to his knees as he once would have when confronted with an owner in a questionable mood. Bond was still in the clothes he’d been wearing for travel — Q could tell that much from the wrinkles in the fine wool suit. How long had he been home, or at least in London? Why hadn’t he let Q know his updated schedule?

Absently, he considered whether or not Bond had enough suits to last him through the next week or if he’d need to make an emergency trip to the same-day dry cleaner. Deciding he didn’t need to take any particular care with this suit, he walked around behind Bond to take his jacket. “How long have you been back?”

“About four hours,” Bond said, stiffly pulling his arms out of the sleeves. “Just long enough to check in, get harangued by Tanner, and wait far longer for a way to get home than I should have.”

“I’m not allowed to crack your files,” Q said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “If you don’t inform me of schedule changes, I have no way to know when you’re coming home.”

“I had every intention of informing you, but no actual time to do it. What little battery life I had on my phone I used to start the after action report. Besides, I expect you to be able to rise to the challenge with or without warning,” Bond said evenly.

Q came back from hanging the jacket with his own dry cleaning. “Yes, James,” he said, refusing to give in to the childish impulse to ask what the hell he was supposed to do — sleep at MI6? He returned, undid the tie clip, and unknotted the tie. Like the suit, it had been worn too long. Ironing might get the wrinkles out, but there was no reason not to send it to the dry cleaner’s. Bond had an excessive number of ties; people gave them to him as gifts. He collected the cufflinks as well and went to put everything away.

Bond watched him as he came back from putting the cufflinks and clip away. “I must confess, Q, I’m disappointed,” he said quietly, not moving from where he waited patiently, tension rippling just under the surface of his cool demeanour.

Surprised, Q looked up from where he’d been reaching for Bond’s shirt buttons. “In _what_?” he asked before he could catch himself.

“You above all others should know what I require when I return home from my work overseas. You excel at anticipating, observing, and acting appropriately based on what you see.” His cool gaze met Q’s, though behind the expressionless gaze was a tautness and a shadow. “I expect more from you than simple reaction.”

“You told me not to risk being caught in your files again,” Q said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. He wanted a cup of tea and breakfast and a moment’s privacy in the bathroom and a bloody phone call so he could’ve gone and picked Bond up at the airport or MI6. He turned his attention back to the buttons, before it occurred to him that Bond might not want his help undressing at all. He looked back up into Bond’s eyes, calm and expectant, and asked, “What can I get you? It’s too early for a drink, unless you’ve been up all night, in which case you should go right to bed.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “Retrieve the first aid kit,” he finally said after a moment’s silence. Then he stepped back and gestured stiffly to the ensuite.

Belatedly, Q realised Bond’s posture might not be simply because of the stress of an overnight flight. With anyone else, he might have assumed nothing more than a headache or sore muscles. In his experience, though, those things barely registered with Bond. “Why didn’t you go to Medical?” he asked, though he knew it was pointless. He went to the ensuite, relieved that he kept the first aid kit stocked after every mission that depleted it. He wondered if he was going to have to end up giving Bond stitches, though he felt a bit queasy at the thought. And wasn’t there a time limit on closing wounds? He’d meant to take a class, but the thought had slipped his mind.

Bond took the kit and turned away, heading for the kitchen — the brightest room in the flat when all the fluorescent lights were turned on and all the way up. Q pulled his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, wrapped up, and tied the belt closed as he followed, wondering why Bond had taken the kit away. Did he _not_ want help?

Once in the kitchen, Bond said, “I didn’t go to Medical because I value your assistance over theirs. I thought you’d observe the signs of my injury and assist, saving me the trouble of dealing with the sadistic vampires who would have taken hours to fix what you could have in minutes.”

“And so you wouldn’t have to fill out their paperwork and answer their questions?” Q asked, trying to recall exactly how Bond had been moving. More stiffly on the left side? His breathing was fine, so his ribs probably weren’t broken. “Sit down. Let me have a look.”

Bond shook his head and set the kit on the counter. “I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you make some coffee?”

“I’ll do it,” Q insisted. Bond had a habit of slapping a plaster onto any wound and calling it good. It was a miracle he hadn’t ended up with an infection, at least in the time Q had known him, given the condition he was often in due to wounds sustained early in his missions.

“Q,” Bond said in the hard, firm tone that he used with trainees at Headquarters. “I have to inform you that your service has not met with my expectations. I’ll deal with this. You make coffee.”

Taken aback, Q nearly objected, but the look on Bond’s face kept him silent. He turned away, gathering up both the coffee carafe and the electric kettle, wondering what ‘expectations’ he hadn’t met. _No one_ could keep track of Bond once he went off-mission. Well, Q could have, if he’d dared to hack MI6 again, but Bond had specifically told him not to put his job — more pointedly, his freedom from prison — at risk like that. So how the hell was he supposed to be held accountable for Bond having to take a taxi or sign a car out of Transport? A simple text from the airport would have sufficed.

He spent some time preparing the coffee and tea, listening to Bond tearing open packets and ripping medical tape off a roll. Q tried to push back the resentment at Bond’s words: _Your service has not met with my expectations_. Yes, he’d got lazy over the last few months, but Bond wasn’t a Marketplace owner. He’d barely recognise the difference between a novice slave and a hired cleaning service, much less a slave with Q’s training lineage.

In some ways, he felt like one of his old schoolmates — a genius with a PhD and brilliant, innovative ideas who’d ended up getting married. Suddenly forced to support a family, he’d got himself a job as a science teacher, and was barely scratching by, spending his days arguing with children over how electricity worked.

He finally made the coffee and tea, though he didn’t put any whiskey in the coffee. It wasn’t even seven in the morning. Bond needed sleep, not to get drunk. He brought the mug over and saw a distressingly large gauze pad taped low on Bond’s left side. Blood was already seeping through in a few small spots.

Bond glanced up at Q but didn’t take the mug yet. He finished applying tape to the gauze, then carefully put everything back in the kit before binning the wrappers. He went back to the counter and picked up his shirt from where he had left it next to the sink, and held it up to look at the side which, Q noticed for the first time, was stained with small flecks of blood. “Beyond saving,” Bond muttered and threw it in the bin.

Finally, he walked up to Q, searching his face as he took the coffee. “Ah,” he finally said quietly. “You don’t see the problem.” He shook his head. “I will not be responsible for allowing you to hold yourself to anything less than the perfection you’ve told me repeatedly you strive for.” He paused and looked down at the coffee before looking up at Q with the same commanding officer look he’d worn when expressing his initial disappointment. “I’m going to lie down. Join me when you’re ready to explain your failure.”

Then, without another word, he stepped around Q and walked out of the kitchen. Q heard him go into the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Q took a deep breath and leaned against the counter, holding his tea in both hands, wondering when the hell Bond had changed. Or maybe they’d both changed, shifting too far out of their original roles. He closed his eyes, thinking back eight or nine months, to when Bond had given him his new collar.

He’d felt wanted. Not just useful, but _wanted_. And he’d tried to show it, bringing out every scrap of his training — everything he could show, at least. Ninety per cent of it hardly applied, or so it seemed.

But the collar was the only shift in their relationship, one that ultimately meant nothing beyond an emotional connection that wasn’t appropriate. Bond still wanted a live-in boyfriend, not a slave, and Q... stopped trying.

He knew how to fix this, of course. He knew a dozen ways, from the most formal, grovelling apology to an open and honest talk about his feelings and dreams. Sadly, the one he was better at was the one Bond would never accept, and Q doubted there was enough scotch in the flat to get Bond to have an emotional heart-to-heart. Not that Q would even want to try.

He sipped his tea, wondering just how long his growing affection for Bond could keep him from getting restless. Thankfully, he wasn’t at the point of having a countdown timer to the day their contract expired, but that time surely wasn’t so far off.

All those years ago, Q had given up everything to chase a dream. He didn’t know if he had it in him to do that again. He didn’t want to _not_ be with Bond; he just didn’t know if he could actually stay with Bond _and_ be happy.

Finally, he put everything back in the first aid kit, mentally adding gauze and tape to the shopping list. He switched the coffee pot to stay warm, rinsed his half-finished mug of tea in the sink, and brought the first aid kit with him to the bedroom. He wasn’t going to spend the morning hiding in the kitchen and sulking.

Bond was in bed, still in his trousers. His eyes were closed, but Q knew he wasn’t sleeping. Q stared at him, wondering why the hell they weren’t _right_ for each other. He couldn’t imagine any sort of middle ground where they could even get close. Even if he quit the Marketplace for Bond, he knew it would be a matter of months before the resentment outweighed the affection and attraction. He might have already been on that road, actually.

He put the first aid kit back in the bathroom, used the toilet, and brushed his teeth, all without coming up with a magical solution. A quick mental calculation told him that it wasn’t yet five in Kobe, so Chris would probably be available if necessary. It was well after two in the morning in Brooklyn, so unless this reached a critical point, any phone calls to Imala Anderson could wait a few more hours.

He went back into the bedroom and hesitated. His training reinforced the instinct that he should kneel in Bond’s sight and wait to be noticed. Bond wouldn’t want that, he knew. He could go sit on the bed and even wake Bond if he’d finally fallen asleep, but that wasn’t comfortable, either.

Finally, resisting the urge to go take a bath and hope this all went away, he crossed to the armchair by the window and sat down. He pulled the dressing gown more tightly closed and folded his legs up to tuck his feet against the cushion, out of the draft.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said quietly.

“It’s my fault for allowing you to grow complacent,” Bond said just as quietly. “I know how you are, what you need, but I’ve been too busy wanting you as a partner that I forgot how it would eventually turn on us.” He finally opened his eyes and turned his head to face Q. “Which has already started.” He turned his head back to look up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to be resented for allowing you to settle for anything less than your best.”

Q hid a sigh, thinking Bond hadn’t recognised his ‘best’. It wasn’t Bond’s fault. He had no experience with soft world submissives, much less Marketplace slaves. He had no way of understanding the depth of training Q had sought when he’d gone to Chris Parker.

But maybe... maybe Q could explain it in a way Bond would understand. Thoughtfully, he asked, “How do you know which of the new field agents to recommend for the Double O programme?”

Bond looked at him curiously, though the frown didn’t leave his face. “There are tells, both in history and behaviour. A penchant for doing whatever it takes for the sake of the mission, even at great personal cost. A certain arrogance and lack of empathy. Physical capability, of course. Attitude.”

“All things that you can document, but it’s _you_ they come to for the final assessment. You can see something that other people miss. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Bond answered with a shrug that made him wince.

Q thought back for a second before he got up out of the chair. He walked to the bathroom, saying, “That fine distinction — good enough to be a field agent, but not good enough for the Double O programme — is what separates me from ninety per cent of the slaves in the Marketplace.” He opened the medicine cabinet and took down a bottle of paracetamol. He wouldn’t give Bond something stronger unless it was necessary. “And that same distinction separates those slaves from anyone playing in fetish clubs.” He brought the tablets to the bedroom and went to the side of the bed. “Take these.”

Bond took the pills and dry swallowed them, then closed his eyes again. “You want to excel, but unless the rewards and punishments are enough to make it worth the effort, you fall into complacency. I understand, Q. The problem, of course, is that our scales are different. But this...” he said, waving to his side. “This is what matters to me, that I’ve found in you what I haven’t found in anyone else. The ability to see what I need and take care of me without my having to say anything. Whether it’s a challenge to you or not, _that_ is at the top of bloody scale for me.”

Hiding his flinch, Q knelt down beside the bed, resting a hand close to Bond’s arm, though he didn’t touch. Not yet. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s not my place to demand recognition from you, nor to dictate the terms of our relationship.”

“Like a soldier who pretends he doesn’t care about recognition for his service to his country?” Bond’s laugh was hollow. “I’ve been failing you this entire time and I’ve only just now realised it. And I thought I was doing so well, too.” He reached out and brushed at Q’s collar. “I thought you knew you were needed and valued and how much I appreciated not having to ask.”

Guiltily, Q looked down and tentatively brushed a kiss over Bond’s hand. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said, wishing he knew how to explain what _was_ missing. Because he did know Bond appreciated and needed him. Or maybe that was it: Bond needed _someone_. It just happened that what Bond needed was less a slave and more a companion. Even that, though, was fine. Companionship was what most owners wanted, after all. “I’ll... try to watch myself. I’ll try not to fail you again,” he offered hesitantly.

“Why did your last two owners work for you?” Bond asked hesitantly. “Is it because you were allowed other lovers?”

Q looked up, surprised by the second question. “No. And it wasn’t... It was something we arranged amongst ourselves. But that had nothing to do with our owners, and it stopped whenever the owners decided to intervene, usually when they were entertaining guests from the Marketplace and wanted us available.” He shook his head and looked back down. “But we were still slaves. Even when we worked in an office and had to deal with commuting and employee reviews and finding time for lunch hour, we _knew_ we were slaves. We knew we were subject to the same use and discipline as anyone else in the Marketplace.”

“But you weren’t used or disciplined,” Bond pointed out. “You said you barely saw your last owner — once a month, at staff meetings.”

“He had a senior slave who handled anything routine,” Q said with a shrug, remembering. It wasn’t an uncommon power structure for a busy owner. In fact, it was modelled after medieval households, with the responsibility of overseeing the staff in the hands of one hireling or a small group of senior servants. “Most of my time was spent organising my department, or doing other work for the company. After hours, I had a full school schedule to keep my skills up-to-date. At night...” He shrugged again. “We had our own hierarchy — the other slaves, that is. Weekends, I either went into the office, did more schoolwork, or occasionally spent time with one of the guests, if they wanted me.”

“So it was the culture and community,” Bond said with a sigh. “That I’ll never be able to replicate.” He closed his eyes again. “I don’t think I want coffee after all.”

Q rose and reached for the mug on the bedside table, then stopped himself. He knelt back down and put his hand on Bond’s arm, quietly saying, “It was necessary and understandable that you bypassed normal Marketplace procedures, James. I even appreciate the reasons behind your decision to purchase my contract. That you were mistaken about the nature of the Marketplace in no way negates the fact that you wanted to help me.”

“That just makes my failure all the more impressive, doesn’t it?” Bond said with a humourless laugh.

Frustrated, Q tightened his hand on Bond’s arm and said, “James, your perceived failure isn’t your responsibility. I should have recognised the problem immediately and done a better job of helping you. The Marketplace doesn’t hand slaves over to inexperienced owners — it’s part of how we’re protected. At the very least, there are resources that might help you. Guides you can read, message boards, even training classes.”

“All right. Thank you, Q,” Bond said, still not opening his eyes. “Why don’t you load whatever materials you think appropriate on my personal tablet? I’ll review them later.”

“Yes, James,” Q said, defeated. He picked up the coffee cup, went around to the other bedside table to get his mobile, and left the bedroom. By now, Bond was familiar with him; he could move quietly through the bedroom without triggering his attack reflexes.

He closed the bedroom door and went to find Bond’s baggage, which was piled in the foyer. He started the electric kettle — he needed more tea — and began sorting through the bags, separating laundry and dry cleaning. The dry cleaning, he left in the foyer; he carried the laundry to the machine in the kitchen, though he wouldn’t start it running until Bond was awake.

He’d have to contact Anderson in New York, he finally decided. Chris Parker was a preeminent trainer in the Marketplace, but he dealt almost exclusively with classically-educated trainers and slaves. Parker’s trainer, Imala Anderson, was the one who studied all aspects of the Marketplace, from spotters to owners. Surely she’d dealt with a reluctant owner — perhaps in the case of an inheritance or marriage between an owner and a non-owner.

She’d know what to do. And, more importantly, Q could ask for a resource recommendation without actually telling her that he was in a fraudulent contract with a government spy — something that could possibly put the whole Marketplace into chaos.

 

~~~

 

Despite his exhaustion, Bond didn’t actually sleep. He was restless, annoyed with himself, and utterly devastated that his relationship with Q was apparently falling apart.

A tiny, mostly unacknowledged part of his mind had known that this was coming. Alec had seen it from the very beginning. But Bond wasn’t prepared for how hurt and afraid he’d been when Q hadn’t immediately seen through his stoic mask to the core of what he needed.

Bond knew that his needs were simple. He’d wanted Q to strip him down, take care of his injury, and perhaps take a bath with him. Then he wanted to curl up with Q and listen to his heart for as long as it took to pull himself free from the dark memories that always threatened to take over when he returned from a mission with a body count.

The fact that he required so little made it nearly impossible for Bond to give Q the real sort of challenge that he needed. _It’s not my place to demand recognition from you, nor to dictate the terms of our relationship_ , Q had said, and it was like a knife in the heart. His very presence, thanks to the weight of the Marketplace, meant that, even without intending to, Q did nothing but dictate the terms of their relationship. The last six months, give or take, had found Bond walking on eggshells as he realised that Q was slipping away into indifference, failing to do even the simple things that Bond had come to cherish, like greeting him at the door with a towel when Bond came in from a rainstorm.

The way Bond saw it, he could do one of two things. He could either strive to be the man Q needed him to be by correcting the behaviour and setting standards of reward and punishment, or he could release Q from his contract.

The problem was, of course, that now that he’d had a taste of what it felt like to be taken care of, it was impossible to imagine life without it. The possibility that Bond might be going back to the way it had been before — cold, unheated flats and stale tea and companionship that ultimately did little more than fuel his own self-loathing — was crushing. At least the disaster with Vesper, the only other person Bond had ever thought he loved, didn’t rest entirely on Bond’s shoulders. She’d betrayed him. But if he couldn’t get even _this_ right, this companionship he’d actually paid a small fortune for, there was absolutely no hope for him from anyone.

Bond sighed at the ceiling and covered his eyes with one arm.

He couldn’t go back to the way things were. He had to do _something_ , but even this simple attempt at correction had ended with more questions than answers. Did Q honestly believe some bloody pamphlet was supposed to do anything?

Bond couldn’t help but feel that somewhere, even if Q hadn’t acknowledged it yet, Q was just waiting for Bond to come to his senses and send him off to someone more suited to his lifestyle. Someone like that green-eyed bastard from the boat.

Just the thought of it made Bond’s stomach turn, and he almost growled in frustration. He could do better. He had to, because the alternative was unthinkable.

 _Stupid selfish bastard_ , he accused himself.

Hours passed with Bond spiralling deeper into self-loathing and the growing fear that Q was about to vanish. Bond tossed and turned, not caring that he was aggravating his wound, not caring that he was approaching his critical fifty-two hours of alertness mark, when the walls would start to shimmer and he could see _things_ out of the corner of his eye, when his baser instincts would be all that kept him on his feet.

Finally deciding that he’d accomplish nothing by hiding alone, he got out of bed. He went in search of Q, who was in the office, where he almost always was when he wasn’t doing housework or sitting with Bond. He never lounged in the living room watching telly or sat out on the balcony watching the sky. He was always _doing_ something.

As soon as Bond stepped through the doorway, Q rose calmly, as if nothing unusual had happened just a few hours earlier. He’d changed from the dressing gown to jeans, a button-down shirt, and a jumper, all presumably taken from the laundry closet. That or Q had a stash of emergency clothes outside the bedroom, since Bond hadn’t heard him enter after he’d put away the first aid kit.

“Come into the bedroom,” Bond said quietly. He watched the pulse on Q’s neck, suddenly realising that he knew damn well why he hadn’t been able to sleep. A racing, over-exhausted mind wasn’t anything new to Bond, and he should have been able to shove it aside long enough to get the sleep that he needed for clearer thoughts. But it had been a year — a year of always coming back to Q and falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

Q led the way into the bedroom and went right to the bed to straighten out the pillows. Then he gave the duvet a tug to settle it back into place. The bed wasn’t made to military-neat standards, but Bond had no doubt that if he left Q alone for a few minutes, it would be.

“Don’t bother. I need a few hours’ sleep,” Bond said, stripping off his clothes, his movements stiff. He nodded for Q to do the same, and was gratified when Q didn’t argue that he had things to do. For a few moments, the only sound in the bedroom was the hum of the central air conditioning and the rustle of fabric. Then Bond got under the covers.

Instead of immediately joining him, Q went into the bathroom. He came out a minute later, naked except for his collar, and got onto his side of the bed. “Take these, James,” he said, holding out two more paracetamol.

Bond took them and swallowed, hiding the surge of gratitude and fear that swelled in him in equal measure — gratitude to have Q here now, fear that he might soon be gone.

Twisting on his uninjured side, Bond reached out and pulled Q close, arranging him to lay flat on his stomach so Bond could rest his head just below Q’s shoulder blades, where he could feel his heart.

Q held very still. “I’ll try to do better for you,” he promised quietly.

Bond yawned, the steady thrum under his ear already lulling him to a restless doze. “And I for you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Sunday, 17 July 2011**

Bond sat on the sofa, looking between the rain spattering on the window and the tablet in his hands, listening to Q cooking the only meal either of them had actually mastered: pasta. Granted, it was dry pasta out of a box and sauce from a jar, but at least it qualified as food.

They’d stopped experimenting with the frozen, pre-made garlic bread after it had caught fire one night when Bond had distracted Q from getting back to the oven.

Sometimes, the speed at which Q accomplished tasks was unimaginable. In the few hours that Bond hadn’t been sleeping earlier that morning, Q had filled his tablet with more than a dozen documents — everything from the pamphlets Bond had anticipated to whole books, four of them written by a Dr Emil Kauffman, two by I. Anderson, and one by, of all people, Chris Parker. Still uncomfortable with Parker’s role in Q’s life, Bond went for the doctor’s books first, and found them all to deal with the psychology of submission. A quick skim of the author’s biography revealed that Dr Kauffman was a US board-certified psychiatrist who’d been a Marketplace owner all his life. He’d been instrumental in several reviews of Marketplace policies regarding client intake as well as new owner certification — the process Bond had bypassed.

Anderson’s book was much more practical (and much less technically detailed). Paging through, Bond recognised glimpses of Q’s behaviour: how he’d unobtrusively studied Bond from the moment Bond had locked the sale collar around his throat, how he learned what Bond liked to eat and when he took his meals, the way he uncovered Bond’s most subtle tells. Just as Bond had been taught to read people and recognise secrets and enemies, Q had been taught almost identical skills — just for a very different purpose.

In one extended section of Anderson’s book, he skimmed an overview of how noble households had been run in Europe, from the medieval period through the Victorian era. Upstairs staff, downstairs staff, kitchen staff, grooms, maids, valets, groundskeepers — whole households had been staffed with slaves not used for sex but for domestic service, every one of them a volunteer. A detailed lineage of Marketplace-trained household servants went back to the middle of the eighteenth century, with three-quarters of each generation eventually going into service for the same noble family. The scope of it was unimaginable.

_There has been talk in recent years of doing away with the certification process, especially for owners. If money is left as the sole threshold for allowing an owner to purchase a client, this will signal the beginning of the Marketplace’s decline. Clients are commodities, our stock-in-trade, but they control the market. Should they find nothing but dissatisfaction in service, they will not renew their contracts. Already, this disturbing trend has been noted and addressed to some extent with the voluntary certification of the Regents. But the Regents deal primarily with clients, not owners. A trainer can prepare a slave for auction and service, but it is up to the owner to keep that slave content in service._

Bond heard a quiet clatter of metal from the kitchen. He looked over, and a minute later, Q emerged, carrying a tray. A plate of pasta with just the right amount of sauce, silverware, a glass of wine. He set the tray down on the coffee table and pre-emptively said, “I apologise if the sauce is... odd.”

Bond raised an eyebrow but decided not to ask. “Thank you,” he said instead, eyeing the dish warily. Neither of them having any talent for cooking, Bond knew his limits. Somewhat burnt, over-spiced, under-spiced, and watery were all things he could deal with. Q knew that, and Bond sincerely hoped that the warning wasn’t a subtle hint that the _oddness_ might be something he actually couldn’t eat — like the time they’d tried to add salt and the cap had fallen off, causing a waterfall of it to land in the pan. But a wary bite revealed nothing except a bit more basil than Bond would have preferred, and he went back to his reading.

A large section of graphs interrupted the narrative. Bond paged through them, absently noting an outdated monetary graph and a complex chart displaying length of service, contract renewal percentage, and contract renewal length.

_Take, for example, L (full name withheld). After seventeen years of service, at age thirty-seven, L entered into a lifetime contract with his owner. While any lifetime contract is an occasion to be noted (because they are so regretfully rare), this one in particular stands as an example of the balance required between owner and slave. L tests as a 5 on the conventional Kinsey scale, indicating an almost complete preference for homosexuality, but his owner is female, and there are no others, male or female, in her household. Why, then, would he accept a lifetime contract with her?_

_What we all forget — what we all allow ourselves to forget — is that service, not sex, is at the core of a true Marketplace slave’s motivation, just as the desire to be served, not the inherently lazy convenience of having a readily available sexual partner, is at the core of every Marketplace owner. If we as trainers and educators fail to bring this out, then the Marketplace will fall under the weight of easily available, meaningless sex at fetish clubs, one-night stands, and the ease with which people can engage in marriage and subsequently divorce when they grow bored._

Bond set the tablet down and leaned back against the couch, wineglass in hand and eyes closed. None of that was particularly new information to Bond — Q had done an exceptional job of explaining the same motivations to him on the boat. Bond had thought he’d been doing well enough, given that he’d handed Q responsibility for almost everything in his life — except for his job, though not for lack of trying. He wasn’t home very often, it was true, but when he was he’d continued the dynamic they’d started to develop a year ago. Q helped dress and undress him, cooked for him, even bathed with him. Obviously it wasn’t the service itself, which Bond had come to rely on completely. The only thing left was the approach.

While Bond had become more comfortable with asking Q to do things, the truth was that though most of his requests were disguised as orders, there was no underlying weight of an absolute authority. If Q had ever refused, Bond wouldn’t push the issue. Perhaps that was a problem.

The more Bond thought about it, however, the less he believed that was the core of their problem. In fact, it was Q’s discussion of clear expectations that Bond kept coming back to — the desire to never have to worry about unspoken problems or expectations never fully expressed. Because Bond considered his needs to be simple, he’d never actually formally discussed them with Q. He didn’t care about odd-tasting pasta sauce, but he _did_ care that Q was there with a first aid kit when he needed.

A laughable reversal of expectations from more ‘normal’ couples, Bond decided with a nearly silent laugh. He suddenly felt guilty — just as Bond was struggling to understand Q’s unique needs and expectations, Q had probably been struggling to understand Bond’s.

That solved one dilemma, Bond decided. He needed to give Q his list of expectations — goals that Q would either achieve or fail to achieve.

Which left only the question of how to address failure. Clearly his attempt this morning had been unsuccessful. But it was with trepidation that Bond sat up and picked up the tablet again. He refused to compromise his stance on physical punishment — it was too close to too many horrors for Bond to ever consider bringing it into his home or relationship.

In that eerily talented way of his, Q came back out of the kitchen just as Bond’s glass was almost empty. Q topped it off, picked up Bond’s plate and silverware, and left. Another night, Bond might not have even noticed.

It took some searching for Bond to find any information at all about managing failures and maintaining discipline. Most of the section was full of blunt-stated cautions not to be tempted to go easy or skip punishment simply because a slave shows remorse or to satisfy one’s own immediate desire. Other than the obvious methods — the ones Bond refused to even consider — the suggestions listed were curiously familiar, applicable to everything from childhood to military service.

Bond set the tablet down again and frowned. He didn’t have a household, Q didn’t have many possessions, and Bond didn’t think he could banish Q to sleep on the floor. Revocation of privilege was a distinct possibility, but Q didn’t exactly take significant advantage of his autonomy. Bond wondered if something as simple as unplugging the router would do the trick, but it struck him as childish retribution.

Then it occurred to him that he could probably just ask Q what he considered to be an appropriate course of action. Q knew him well enough by now not to suggest pain, and he wouldn’t lie.

Finally, Bond stood, wineglass in hand, and decided he just needed to think it over for a bit before he actually tried to articulate any of his conclusions. A bath and a change of bandages sounded like an appropriate approach.

“Q?”

Seconds later, Q came out of the kitchen. “Yes, James?”

“I’m going out on the patio for a cigarette. Would you draw a bath for me, please?” he asked as he started towards the foyer. He’d left his cigarettes in his coat pocket.

Q slipped ahead of him, and Bond stopped, knowing that Q would fetch them himself. Bond went back into the living room, where he opened the balcony doors, letting in a blast of hot, wet air. A moment later, Q joined him there, shook a cigarette out of the pack, and offered it to Bond, along with the lighter he always carried. “Would you like a drink in the bath?”

Bond considered it for a moment as he took the cigarette and lighter. A scotch on top of the wine he had with dinner would certainly make the conversation they needed to have easier, but not necessarily any clearer. “No,” he finally said. “More coffee might be in order, though.”

“Yes, James,” Q answered, and left Bond to the rain.

The cigarette brought no particular clarity. The rain and heat left Bond sweating, and he was surprised that Q didn’t come out to the balcony with a cold drink for him, despite the request for coffee. He was tempted to have a second cigarette, but Q hadn’t given him the pack.

When he turned, he found Q waiting just inside the balcony doors, steaming coffee in one hand, towel over the other arm. He offered Bond the towel without scolding him for getting water all over the carpet.

Bond took the towel and mopped at his face, hair, and chest with it, then wrapped it around his neck. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the coffee. “I’ll need to change my bandages when I get out.”

“Yes, James.”

With a nod, Bond made his way to the bathroom, aware that Q was following him. Rather than feeling annoyed or crowded, Bond found it something of a relief. Even with the sharp left turn the day had taken, veering far from Bond’s original plan to recuperate in bed, Q wouldn’t storm out of the flat or sit on the opposite side of the room, nursing his anger in silence. He would stay, and that meant Bond had time to figure out how to fix this.

When they reached the now warm bathroom, Bond stood in front of the tub, waiting to see what Q would do. He didn’t think he needed to ask Q to undress him, given his injury, but something was different between them at the moment, and Bond decided not to take anything for granted.

Q put the coffee down on the edge of the tub, where Bond most often had a glass of scotch. Then he put aside the wet towel and carefully eased the cotton jumper away from Bond’s wounded side before lifting it. Q set the wet jumper on the counter, turned back, and loosened the waist of Bond’s tracksuit bottoms. He pulled them down, sinking to his knees so he could get at the now-soaked socks.

“If you sit on the edge of the tub, I’ll get the bandage off,” Q said as he put the wet clothes aside.

Bond complied and picked up the coffee to cradle in his hands as he waited. He knew his skin was colourfully decorated in bruises of various shades, but it wouldn’t be anything new to Q by now. In fact, all things considered, he really didn’t have anything to complain about. The knife wound, while painful, was relatively superficial.

After all this time, Q had gained far too much practice at removing medical tape. He worked his nails under it, set a hand on Bond’s body just above the wound, and pulled without warning. The tape was the thin, papery stuff, not nearly as sticky as surgical tape, but it still stung.

“It doesn’t look deep. The water shouldn’t do it any harm,” Q said a moment later, speaking from below Bond, at eye-level with the wound.

Bond hummed in agreement and, careful not to splash Q, sank into the tub. For a moment the sting of the hot water against his torn skin was overwhelmingly painful, and Bond had to fight the adrenaline response that told him to get away from the source of the pain. But he gritted his teeth and hissed out a breath until he was finally submerged. It took a minute for his heart to slow back down to a more normal level, but when it did Bond relaxed and starting sipping the coffee. It was perfect, as usual.

Once Bond was settled comfortably, resting on the foam bath pillow that Q had picked up at some point, Q gathered up the wet clothing and left the bathroom, closing the door to keep in the steam. Q returned with the insulated carafe from the coffee pot and Bond’s dressing gown. He hung the dressing gown on the back of the door, set the coffee pot on the counter, and knelt down nearby.

Bond glanced over, then settled his coffee in his left hand so he could reach out with his other to stroke it through Q’s hair. Q shifted an inch closer and bowed his head, pushing into the touch the way he always did, ever since that first night on the ship. He didn’t fidget restlessly or sigh or say anything. He just went still, except for the subtle movements of his breath and his response to Bond’s touch.

“I don’t have the same needs and expectations as your average British citizen might,” he said with a sigh, deciding he liked the neutral ground of the bathroom for this conversation after all. He stroked his hand through Q’s hair, enjoying the feel of the silky hair tangling on his rough fingers.

“There’s nothing ‘average’ about you, James,” Q answered softly.

“But it’s not fair to make you guess,” he replied just as quietly. “I should have been more clear. What I need from you isn’t home-prepared meals, or well-timed cigarettes, or perfect coffee — even though I appreciate those things more than you probably know. It’s something far more fundamental, and harder to explain.” Bond paused, thinking carefully over his phrasing. This was his one chance to get it right — he had to get it right.

“I love my job, and I’m good at it. Better than most. And better than I would be at anything else. But there are consequences to what I do. A small piece of me is chipped away every time. Sometimes, the pieces aren’t that small. Once, I told someone that whatever I had left of a soul was hers, but now I don’t think it really works that way. I think the chipped-away pieces can be found again.”

He wanted to look at Q to see if he was following this, but couldn’t risk being derailed with an expression of confusion or, worse, pity.

“When you greet me at the door, when you attend to my wounds, when you look through the mask to see the holes that need to be filled, even if it’s just by handing me a towel when I come in out of the rain, you treat me like a person. Like a fellow human being who doesn’t need to be regarded with wariness or fear. Like someone who hasn’t sacrificed his right to a good life by taking away so many others’. I will never reprimand you for burnt garlic toast, because the fact that you tried, that you’re doing something for me at all, is itself worthy of praise. When you stand next to me to dry the dishes as I wash them, and turn your back on me to put them away, I feel another piece of my humanity coming back. I’ll never be upset at a broken dish, Q — I’d be upset if you refused my assistance with the dishes because it would deprive me a chance to be human again. With you.”

Bond stopped for a moment, swallowing back the lump in his throat and taking a drink of coffee to help cover his temporary loss of words.

“I know that you outlined your expectation that I be clear and firm about any disappointments, so you wouldn’t feel as if there was a laundry list of perceived injustices waiting for you when I finally lost my temper. What you don’t understand is that I hadn’t found fault with you, or your behaviour, at all. I wasn’t being complacent or kind. I was delighted that you set the stove on fire, because you were doing it _for me_.

“But this morning, I needed you. I was hurt and tired and wanted nothing more than to have you wrap yourself around me and pretend that I’m not all cutting, jagged edges. And when you didn’t notice...” Bond stopped and took a deep breath. “I need you to notice, Q. I need you to help me keep what little I have left of a soul intact.”

For long seconds, Q was silent. Bond didn’t dare look over at him, thinking he’d shown too much of himself — of the truth he hid from everyone but Alec, who was just as broken as he was. But then Q made a small sound, a little hitch of breath, and shuffled to the edge of the tub. He pulled Bond’s hand free of his hair and kissed it, holding tightly, hiding his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lips moving against Bond’s skin. “I’m so sorry, James. I should have known. I — I didn’t.” He took in a sharp, tense breath without lifting his head. “I didn’t know. Please, let me try again.”

Bond nodded and swept his thumb over Q’s lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly when he realised that Q couldn’t see his nod. The knot of heavy dread that had been lodged in his chest finally started to loosen, and Bond took a deep breath. He finally turned his head to look at Q, and any thought he had about discussing punishment vanished under the sight of Q’s obvious remorse. Maybe he’d bring it up another time, Bond thought, when there was a reason to. But as Bond stroked Q’s jaw and chin, he was almost certain that Q wouldn’t fail him again.

 

~~~

 

There was no way to prepare for every eventuality. That was a universal truth that went far beyond the Marketplace. Soldiers, law enforcement officers, businessmen, managers, leaders — they all trained, however much, however effectively, to handle _any_ eventuality, with the knowledge that the specifics would be easy enough to sort out, as long as one had a method to generally analyse and prioritise an unfamiliar situation or crisis.

It wasn’t enough.

In light of Bond’s words, Q immediately saw where he’d gone wrong, starting from that moment on the ship when Bond had so uncertainly told Q that he didn’t want to end their contract after all. For all this time, Q had _again_ been living with false expectations. Bond had depended on him to do what he had been trained to do, and he’d failed.

“I have no right to ask this,” he said tentatively, “because I’ve already failed you for this long, but... I could better serve you if you would _only_...” He faltered, glad that the high edge of the bathtub and his position leaning against it meant he didn’t have a comfortable, easy way to meet Bond’s eyes. Carefully, he said, “I know you’ve been trying to change your own behaviours to conform to a standard Marketplace relationship. Would you instead please _be yourself_?”

Bond sighed, hand tightening slightly on Q’s jaw in affection. “I want to be what you need me to be,” he said quietly.

Q took a breath and lifted his head. Bond was looking at him, his expression calm but edged with wariness. “Do you remember on the ship, when we spoke of bias?” he asked quietly. “How any system of behavioural analysis would carry a bias, even if it was its programmer’s?”

“Yes,” Bond responded, watching Q even as he took another drink of his coffee. He shifted his hand from Q’s jaw to rest on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing small circles over his spine.

“This was _my_ bias, and I’m sorry for it,” Q admitted. “What I need is to be what _you_ need. You aren’t a Marketplace owner. I don’t know that you could ever be one. But despite that, you said that you need me. I need to learn _how_ you need me, and I can only do that by reading you.”

Slowly, Bond nodded. “All right,” he finally said. “But you have to tell me if you start to resent it. Just as you told me you don’t want to be surprised with unvoiced dissatisfaction, neither do I.”

Q looked away, wondering how to even begin to explain. “Dissatisfaction is a matter of scope,” he said slowly. “If you went to a restaurant and didn’t like one ingredient in an otherwise perfect meal, would you be dissatisfied? You probably wouldn’t even complain and send the plate back. Next time you went back, you might order something different, or ask for the same dish without that one ingredient, or you might try it again, trusting the chef’s discretion. Am I correct?”

Bond nodded again.

Relieved, Q continued, “And if you choose to go out with someone who means something to you — someone who wants to go to that restaurant, and who wants you to try that dish — you might not complain at all, or even mention it. You’re exactly where you want to be, doing what you want to do. The details don’t matter.”

Bond was silent for several minutes, sipping his coffee and rubbing gentle circles in Q’s skin. “Thank you,” he finally said again. “Not just for explaining. But for choosing to be here.” He sank a little deeper into the water, letting his head fall back against the bath pillow. “I really do need you, Q. Want is all well and good, and accurate,” he continued quietly, hand slipping down to play with the collar, “but I’ve come to rely on you entirely.” Then Bond moved his hand again, bringing it forward to rest over Q’s heart, and started to relax.

“I’ll do better for you, James. I promise.” Q covered Bond’s hand with his own and leaned in to kiss his arm. “Will you tell me if I don’t? If there’s something I do that you don’t like, or if you need something from me?”

“Yes,” Bond promised. “I will.” Then he chuckled quietly. “Now that that’s resolved, how about you join me in the tub?”

Relieved, Q rose, slipping the coffee cup out of Bond’s hand. He emptied the dregs, refilled, and returned the mug to the side of the tub before he started to undress. After quickly checking that there were enough towels, he stepped into the tub, unstoppering the drain. The water was cooling, so he turned on the hot tap as he knelt down between Bond’s legs. “How does your side feel?”

“It’s fine,” Bond replied, wrapping his arms around Q, turning him so he settled on his side against Bond’s chest. Then he started to run a hand through Q’s hair. “It’s going to scar something beautiful though.”

Q let out a huff, using one foot to restopper the tub so he didn’t have to move. “May I suggest that you start sparring with opponents _other_ than Alec? The two of you are too good at predicting how you both move.”

Bond laughed, and Q could feel the rumble where his head was pressed to Bond’s chest. “Who do you suggest? I’d have the same problem with the other Double O’s, and the field agents are too breakable. Don’t even get me started on the trainees.”

“An outside class?” Q suggested, thinking of what he’d learned in Japan — not for himself, but what he’d learned about the training for bodyguards, martial artists, and fighters. “Someone with a style unfamiliar enough to present a challenge, in a controlled environment?”

Bond shrugged. “It’s dangerous for me to spar with anyone outside MI6. In fact, there are rules about it for us. Alec calls it the ‘bar brawling’ clause. I’d rather not get dragged in front of M like a naughty school boy for accidentally giving an outsider a concussion.”

Q couldn’t quite hide a shudder at that. M was _terrifying_. The fact that she knew the truth about the chain around Q’s neck didn’t make Q any more comfortable around her — less, in fact. She was the only person at MI6 around whom Q had to resist the urge to drop to his knees.

“Prior authorisation?” he suggested. “I can make inquiries about suitable metrics to show the diminishing returns of sparring with a fixed pool of opponents. It could benefit all the field agents, not just you and Alec.”

“If you like,” Bond said, moving from petting Q’s hair to stroking his back. “But there will always be an enemy with a knife or worse that I don’t see. This time he was hiding behind a batik curtain.” He stopped speaking suddenly, frozen, before he started to laugh. “A batik curtain, Q.”

Q sighed and nudged at the valve handle with one foot before the tub could overflow. He flexed and bent his leg, mixing in the hot water, and felt Bond relax even more. “Infrared scanning. Modifications to your mobile. Thermal sensor on your — no, the heat of the barrel would interfere or overload it after just a shot or two. The mobile will work better. Perhaps I’ll make the suggestion to Major Boothroyd.”

“I was running pretty hard at the time, so I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the mobile. Maybe something that scans and gives an audio notification. Tie it into the earpiece, maybe.” Bond sighed and closed his eyes. “Does Boothroyd give you time in his labs?”

A little surprised, Q shook his head. “No, I’m only in database support. But he stops by every Friday, and I help him with whatever he needs.” Q permitted himself a somewhat resigned sigh. “Like his email. Almost every week.”

“I’m surprised that after this all this time you’re still stuck in database support. You’re a genius with a PhD and a publishing record. Why the hell are they wasting you like that?”

“Because databases are complicated, terrifying things that either work so beautifully, the users think they _must_ be simple, or that fail so spectacularly that people panic. They’re poorly documented. Reports evolve without any intelligent design or oversight. Code is patched over old code without repairing the original problem. Database work is the black hole of computing.” Q shrugged. “If you know what you’re doing, they’re just as content to let you stay, so they don’t have to find someone else to take over.”

“You don’t have to stay there, Q,” Bond said after a moment of silence. “They’re wasting your time and talent, without even the benefit of allowing you to help me in the field, which is why I wanted you there in the first place.” He quit stroking Q’s back to tighten his arms around him. “Or I can talk to Boothroyd. Suggest that your talent is being underused and that you might be stolen away by Baskerville if they don’t start challenging you.”

Q turned enough to rub his face against Bond’s chest, water splashing up over his collar. “We can review the org chart tomorrow, if you’d like. Just tell me where you want me to be, and I’ll find a way to get promoted.” He leaned back so he could kiss Bond’s jaw.

“I want you running my ops,” Bond said without hesitation. “If you can get there, that’s where I want you. And if it’s not possible, maybe I’ll just build you a lab here in the flat and you can come up with your own ways to help save my arse.”

Quartermaster programme, then. Major Boothroyd’s elite team leaders. “Doesn’t Major Boothroyd himself run your operations?”

“Yes, he does. But he’s been doing this for too long. He’s missing things. He doesn’t want to run the field agents anymore. He wants to tinker.”

Slowly, thoughtfully, Q nodded. “It... might interfere with my duties to you, in the short term,” he said, thinking of how to best get close to Major Boothroyd. He was an engineer by trade, not a computer scientist. He was respected but also bypassed by everyone in TSS for the sake of efficiency. He avoided computerisation, supposedly for the sake of simplicity, citing the enormously high failure rates of complex gadgets in the field, but Q suspected it was because he didn’t _understand_ them, fundamentally. And he had no interest in learning.

But, if he could trust someone who _did_ understand them, someone who could translate computer-to-English in a way that made him comfortable, he might well reward that person with an apprenticeship, thereby bypassing the usual tedious chain of promotions required before getting near the Quartermaster programme.

“I think I know a way,” he said, turning to give Bond another kiss. “Would it be amiss if I suggested you went to sleep now? You must be exhausted, and you need to heal.”

Bond hummed. “All right,” he said, though he made no effort to move and kept his eyes closed. “Wouldn’t that be something? Keeping my body alive at work, keeping my soul alive at home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Sunday, 1 January 2012**

“I told you, midnight blue,” Q said a little breathlessly as he and Bond made it through the door to the flat without breaking their embrace. He caught Bond’s face and kissed him, bumping the door closed with one foot. “Everyone who saw you wanted  — What is it?” he asked, feeling Bond go tense.

When Bond drew the gun he carried everywhere, even to the symphony, Q backed against the wall. Much as he wanted to help, he knew better than to get in Bond’s way. His own gun was in the bedroom, but he had no illusions about his ability to shoot an intruder. Proficiency on the range had little to do with _this_.

A gruff shout in Russian made him exhale in relief as the adrenaline hit. “Alec?” he barely whispered.

Unexpectedly, Bond froze, then stared down at Q with an expression he couldn’t quite parse. Bond holstered his gun, took Q’s hand, and stepped forward, holding Q carefully behind him as if shielding him. When they made it to the living room, Bond stopped.

“You’re back late,” he said quietly. “Almost three weeks late.”

Alec was sitting in the dark living room. One of the bottles of vodka kept in the freezer now sat out in front of him. He was dressed in neat, dark jeans and a white button-down shirt too tight in the shoulders. His hair was even longer than usual, brushing against his jaw, and he had a short, untamed beard.

“Complete bloody cock-up,” he said, eyeing Bond and what he could see of Q. “Look at you two. Aren’t you just pretty.”

“It was a hell of a party,” Bond said dryly, watching Alec carefully. “Five minutes to change. All right?”

Alec shrugged, the motion visible only because of his white shirt. “No rush. Everyone’s fucking dead.”

Bond nodded, but he didn’t take Q to the bedroom. Instead, he let go of Q’s hand and walked over to crouch in front of Alec. “I tried to get there. I had three separate transports lined up, and M found a way to cancel every fucking one and blacklist me.”

Alec muttered something vicious in Russian — a curse Q was coming to recognise, though he didn’t know the specific meaning yet. “It wasn’t —” He shook his head and leaned past Bond to pick up the bottle. He took a drink, not bothering with a glass. “I had to go off-mission. No bloody choice. She’ll probably have me shot. Or pin a fucking medal on me.”

“The holidays have ended. Maybe that means she’ll be in a generous mood,” Bond said. “Should I send Q for the first aid kit?”

“Bloody holidays,” Alec muttered. “I went to Medical. They’re letting the fucking janitors do stitches now.” He handed Bond the bottle and started to unbutton his shirt.

Q didn’t wait; he slipped out, removing his overcoat and scarf, and went for the bedroom. The coat and scarf, he put on one of the armchairs, for now. He’d deal with them later. He got the first aid kit, debated for a moment, and then searched the cleaned-out medicine cabinet for the strongest painkillers they had left. Just a month ago, he and Bond had gone through the contents and sorted out everything that Bond reluctantly admitted he should no longer have.

 _Timing_ , Q thought wryly. Making a note to keep some painkillers and tranquilisers on hand, he picked up a few clean towels and Bond’s dressing gown, and then brought everything back to the living room.

The light by the sofa was on now, showing Alec’s bruised, bloodied torso. Most of the cuts were scabbed over or angry red scars. There were a few burns, mostly on his left side. He looked as if he’d got into a fight with very angry hedge clippers, and hadn’t had a decisive victory.

Q brought everything to the coffee table. He opened the kit and turned it to face Bond before asking, “Hot water? Ice?” Significantly, he handed Bond the small bottle of painkillers.

Bond took the painkillers and sighed. “Hot water,” he said without looking up at Q. He offered the bottle to Alec. “Or do you want a bath or a shower instead?”

Knowing what little self-restraint field agents had after a bad mission, Q delicately intercepted the bottle so he could dispense a single pill, rather than leaving it up to Alec’s compromised judgement. Alec took it, giving Q a dark, assessing look — a look Q hadn’t seen from anyone since he’d been on the auction block. Q dropped his gaze instinctively and would have gone to his knees, but he knew Bond wouldn’t approve.

Alec took the pill, washed it down with more vodka, and told Bond, “I had a shower. It opened half the fucking cuts.”

“Five minutes to change,” Bond said firmly, which Q knew was meant to be reassuring. “I’ll be right back.” Then he stood, took Q’s hand again, and pulled him to the bedroom.

“He’s in bad shape,” Bond said after he closed the door and started to quickly and efficiently undress. “Maybe you should go...” Bond looked up from unbuttoning his shirt, frowning. “I don’t know. Somewhere. Do you have friends in London?”

Startled, Q took the shirt studs from Bond’s hand and went for his cufflinks. “Yes,” he said, thinking of Z. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked, worried — and a little hurt, though he tried to hide it.

“No, I don’t want you to leave. But I don’t want you to get hurt. If you get caught in the middle...” Bond shook his head. “You’ve seen me like that. You know how dangerous it is.”

It took Q a moment to remember back through the months, to when Bond had come home, only to disappear with Alec. He helped Bond out of his shirt and shook his head. “I want to help.”

Bond looked at Q, startled, until some sort of realisation seemed to occur to him. “Ah. You _haven’t_ actually seen me like that, that’s right.” He sighed, then stripped off his shoes and socks. “You can stay, but when I tell you to go to the bedroom, you will comply immediately, and put on headphones with music turned on loud enough to drown us out. And if we leave, don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow by dinner.”

His first instinct was to immediately agree, but six months ago, their relationship had changed. So while he went to hang Bond’s jacket and set his shirt with the dry cleaning, he said, “Yes, James,” but then added, “Why?”

“Because there are two ways to help Alec, and I don’t want you to be involved in either one,” he said grimly, pulling down and stepping out of his trousers. He handed them to Q and pressed a kiss to his lips before turning to retrieve tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt from the dresser.

Q put everything away quickly and intercepted Bond before he could leave the bedroom. “He’s in no shape to fight, James.”

Bond’s expression softened. He finished dressing and he pulled Q tightly to his body, then kissed his hair. “You know now how hard it is for us to remember we’re human sometimes. Especially after missions like the one Alec just had. The body isn’t as important as the soul.”

“But you don’t —” Q began, before he stopped himself. He held Bond close, turning to kiss his ear. “I’m sorry. You’re good friends. Of course, you care for each other.”

Bond’s sigh was heavy as he released Q. “He was the only one I had, before you. For over twenty years.” Then he turned and slipped out the door.

Q followed him out of the bedroom but went to the kitchen. Heating a bowl of water took just a few minutes, and by the time he brought it out, Bond was sitting beside Alec on the sofa, cataloguing the worst of his injuries.

“Is anything broken? I can call a physician,” Q offered, thinking of the Marketplace physicians who actually still did housecalls. He knew that Bond wouldn’t look twice at the cost, for Alec’s sake. He put the bowl down in Bond’s reach.

“Nothing’s broken. I can breathe fine,” Alec said, giving Bond a challenging glare.

“It’s fine, Alec,” Bond said quietly. He picked up the towel and dipped it in the water. “No one but us,” he assured him as he started dabbing at the wounds that were still bleeding. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in a while.” He looked up suggestively at Q.

“I’ll see what we have,” Q offered, and went back to the kitchen. They’d done takeaway for dinner last night and had eaten out tonight, with no leftovers. Tinned food, dry pasta... He really did need to learn to cook, but he had no talent for it. And no interest.

He made tea, stared at the cupboard, and finally put out the leftover Christmas biscuits Danielle had distributed two weeks earlier. The cheerful frosting seemed rather grim in light of Alec’s current mood, but it was that or pasta with butter, since they didn’t even have any sauce. For a week, Bond had been taking Q out for two meals out of three, to celebrate the holidays. Q hadn’t gone grocery shopping for some time before that.

He brought the pot of tea, two cups, and biscuits out on a tray. The water in the bowl was distressingly muddy already, so he set everything down and picked up the bowl. “I can make pasta, if you’d like,” he offered.

“Call out for something, but have them deliver it to the doorman,” Bond said. “You can pick it up downstairs for me.” He folded the towel and pressed it over a sluggishly bleeding, deep, and poorly stitched cut over Alec’s upper arm. Q knew the doctors in Medical were both exceptionally competent and trained to deal with the ‘unique needs’ of field agents. For the stitches to be that bad, Alec must have put up one hell of a fight.

Two in the morning on New Year’s day. Q nodded, hoping _somewhere_ would be open, and took the bowl away to change out the water.

 

~~~

 

It was over an hour before Q was able to bring two plates into the living room. Disassembled burgers, with the hot meat and cheese separate from the buns, lettuce, and tomatoes, due to the travel distance. Somewhat crispy chips were piled on the sides of each plate. He’d reheated everything and nearly put the burgers together before realising he had no idea how Alec took his, and decided to leave them both taken apart for the sake of presentation.

He set the plates down and touched the closed first aid kit, giving Bond a silent, questioning look. He and Alec hadn’t spoken, as far as Q could tell, since before Q had gone down to the lobby to fetch the takeaway from the significantly richer doorman who’d offered to drive to the only pub with a kitchen that was still open at this late hour. The vodka was nearly empty, but Q didn’t want to offer a replacement bottle just yet.

He considered it something of a victory that he’d convinced them to start using glasses.

Bond looked up at Q, expression resigned. “Thank you,” he said before getting up to wash his hands in the kitchen. He stopped at the fridge to pull out ketchup and mustard, then returned to the living room to start assembling the burgers while Alec sat drinking, staring at the wall.

“Every one of them deserved it,” Bond said as he piled one bun with a patty, cheese, all of the tomatoes, and none of the lettuce. He poured what seemed to Q like an excessive amount of ketchup on it, put the top bun on, and handed it to Alec. “Hell, I wish I could have lit the fire for you.”

Alec sighed and picked up his plate. He set it on his lap and crushed the burger to a manageable size. He muttered something in Russian, picked up the burger, and took a bite. He’d barely swallowed before he said, “Tell me again why the fuck I wasn’t allowed to go after the two that got over the border.”

“Because Interpol was already on their arses, and wouldn’t have taken kindly to your killing their agents in an effort to get your last two targets,” Bond said as he assembled his own burger. He picked up the plate and sat down again next to Alec. “And you know how much I hate having to raid a maximum security prison to get you out. I don’t know what’s worse. The fucking razor wire or those new sensor-based security systems. Though with Q’s help, I bet I could cut at least ten minutes off my average.”

“Or we could do something different and not try,” Q suggested.

Alec’s head came up, and though he barked out a sound vaguely like a laugh, he stared at Q too intently — far too sharp-eyed for someone who should by all rights have been drunk. Bond shifted, not meeting Alec’s gaze, and picked up a chip. “Q, maybe you should change.”

Q left silently, feeling like he’d missed something significant. About him and Bond, or was it some insight into Alec’s current state of mind? Frowning, he changed out of his dinner suit, setting aside the dry cleaning. After a moment’s debate, he put on comfortable black trousers and a button-down shirt. He didn’t know if Bond would want him around, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not like this.

He went back out into the living room and shivered in the sudden chill. The balcony doors were open, and Bond and Alec were, infuriatingly, standing on the balcony in the rain, smoking and arguing. Q snatched the last two towels off the coffee table, wondering if they were both idiots, and went to the balcony, where their argument had taken on a sharper, physical edge. They weren’t _quite_ on the verge of fighting, though that was Q’s first thought.

But then he recognised the charged energy that ran beneath Alec’s anger — dominance and danger and something that was almost lust, but not quite. Ten years ago, if he’d seen _this_ Alec at a club, he would’ve been torn between calling security and throwing himself at Alec’s feet. And honestly, he probably would have done the latter, and tried to provoke Alec into letting slip his self-control.

That was who he was, but that wasn’t who Bond was. Bond could be a relaxed, considerate lover, but there was nothing submissive in him. He was provoking Alec, inciting him to lose his self-control in the wrong way — a catharsis, yes, but the type that would end in bloodshed, if they weren’t both very careful.

Then Alec shoved Bond against the balcony railing, and Q’s mind went blank with fear that Bond would fall or slip. He dropped the towels and rushed across the living room, thinking a year and a half of Bond’s sporadic self-defence tutoring hadn’t prepared him for this. He remembered his disastrous attempt at holding Alec back from the laptop in the hospital in Alaska.

“Alec. You’re going to hurt him,” Q said sharply, pausing to belatedly take off his glasses. He tossed them onto a nearby side table and then went out into the rain. It was bloody _freezing_ outside, and there was a very good chance that Alec, in his current condition, would end up coming down with something after this idiocy. God, they really did need keepers. Both of them.

“Q,” Bond warned in a quiet voice. “I’m fine.”

Trying not to shiver, Q put a hand out to them. Then he hesitated, remembering the order he’d followed since the ship. Other than handshakes and minimum necessary courtesies at work, only Bond had touched him. But at least the sight might get through to one of them, Q thought, so he pushed between them, turned his back to Bond, and put his hand on Alec’s arm.

“Fuck, Q,” Bond muttered, putting his hands on Q’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll freeze. He’s not going to _really_ hurt me.”

“He’s injured,” Q reminded Bond, though he never looked away from Alec, who was staring at him as if not certain what to do now. Q didn’t move out from between them. “Go back inside.”

For a few wet, cold seconds, no one moved. Q suspected that what he’d interrupted was a routine, the type of behaviour that they’d never negotiated or discussed or even acknowledged the morning after. Now, Q had broken the pattern, and neither of them had any idea what to do next.

Hiding his sigh, Q said, “Now, Alec. James. Inside, both of you.”

With a sullen Russian curse, Alec pitched his cigarette off the balcony and walked into the living room. Q turned and met Bond’s eyes steadily, challenging him to object.

Bond stared at Q for a moment before he let go of Q’s shoulders and looked away with a slight nod. Finally, he followed Alec, though he didn’t go very far. He stood less than a metre from Alec, hovering just outside arm’s reach.

Q let out a shaky breath and went back inside, firmly closing and locking the balcony door. “Bathroom,” he said as he picked up the dry towels. “And no fighting.”

“Fucking Christ,” Bond muttered as he took the towels Q offered. He tossed one to Alec and nodded his head sharply in the direction of the master bedroom rather than the smaller bathroom off the kitchen. He waited for Alec to pass, then turned to Q. “I don’t know any other way to fix him, Q,” he said quietly, but without accusation. He searched Q’s gaze, his own expression uncertain and worried.

“Neither of you has one bit of common sense do you?” he said, glancing down as he tugged up Bond’s wet shirt.

“Going on two years and you’re just _now_ figuring this out?” Bond asked, mouth quirking in a not-quite smile.

Q huffed and took away the towel so he could throw it over Bond’s head to dry his hair. It was shorter than Alec’s — and Q’s, for that matter — so it didn’t take much. “Do you want him?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Bond sighed. “He’s my best friend, and the only person I know who is as broken as I am. Sometimes, this is necessary. That’s it.”

“That’s not what I asked, James.” He tugged the towel down over Bond’s shoulders and touched his face. “Do you want him?”

“I want to help him,” Bond said with a shrug. “But no, not in the way you mean.” He looked down at his soaked trousers, frowning as if he had admitted something unpleasant.

Q sighed again and gave Bond a little push towards the hallway. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to end the night, but he’s the only family you have. And if you haven’t thrown him out yet, you’re not going to. Will you let me help him instead?”

Bond froze, head snapping up to look at Q. “You? And Alec?” His expression turned fiercely angry for a moment before it slipped back into a blankness that was all too familiar. “You’re not mine to pass around to my friends, Q.”

“I’m offering to help _our_ friend,” Q said carefully. “I almost shot him once, to protect you. Now that I know what he means to you, why wouldn’t I offer?”

“He’ll hurt you,” Bond said darkly. “We can take it from each other, but...” He reached out to run his hands up Q’s thin waist.

“James.” Q let go of the towel to catch Bond’s wrists. “You know what I like. I’ve been doing _that_ for a very long time. I’m stronger than you think, and I know how to manage him.”

Bond frowned, expression thoughtful, looking at Q’s hands. “I can’t. I can’t sit in the living room while you two...” He shook his head. “I know you want it, but it makes me feel dirty, somehow.”

Q hesitated, seeing only two ways to reassure Bond. “We can go to his flat,” Q offered, “or you can stay in the room with us. But if you do, you need to trust me. I know my limits; you don’t. You’ve never come close to testing them.”

“I know,” Bond said, a bit of guilt in his voice.

“No — James, that’s not why,” Q said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t even _suggest_ this, except you don’t really want him at all, so you shouldn’t. Please don’t think I’d prefer someone else over you.”

Bond looked up into Q’s eyes again, searching his face. Finally, he nodded. “I believe you,” he said softly. Then he turned and followed Alec into the bedroom.

Q let out a shaky breath and went to the kitchen, pausing only to turn up the heat another two degrees. He started the electric kettle, thinking they’d all need something hot to drink. While it was heating, he gathered the dishes and pulled off his wet shirt. A tea towel worked well enough to dry off for now — thankfully he’d only been outside for less than a minute — and he soon was able to bring a fresh pot of tea into the bedroom.

Alec and Bond were arguing again, and though he thankfully didn’t hear any hint that the argument had turned physical, he still put the tray down on the dresser and went after them, thinking he might just have to send them to separate rooms like squabbling children if he couldn’t distract them both. Whatever had happened on Alec’s mission, his temper was running too high to be near anyone as naturally volatile as Bond.

He walked in and said, “James, would you please find dry clothes for all of us?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he moved past them both to turn on the shower.

Bond’s eyes tracked Q, but he didn’t stop arguing with Alec, his Russian low and vicious. He moved to the doorway, glared at Alec, and spit out one final sentence before he walked out. A few moments later Q could hear the rattle of the drawers as Bond searched for clothing. It would probably take him some time; Q had reorganised the drawers from their previous chaos, and he suspected Bond had no idea where to find anything.

Gently, Q closed the bathroom door to keep in the heat; he made a point of not turning the lock. Alec was watching him suspiciously, and when he approached, Alec put out a hand, saying, “You don’t need to do this.”

So Bond had told him. That made it easier. “I want to.” He took the last step, until Alec’s fingertips brushed his bare chest. They were callused and rough and strong, and Q stopped shivering from the cold. Reminding himself that this was for Alec and Bond, Q lowered himself to his knees, feeling the way Alec’s hand followed, moving to his shoulder and then up into his wet hair.

A year and a half, he thought. More. Almost two years. He enjoyed what he did with Bond, and he knew he was far too emotionally attached. In a way, that made _this_ easier. Alec was Bond’s closest friend, and he was so very much Q’s type, just as Bond himself was.

It was a dizzying thought.

“Q —”

“Please, sir,” Q interrupted. There was no point in arguing. He would have done this even if he _hadn’t_ wanted to, simply to spare Bond from that burden. And having Bond here, whether in the same room or the next room, gave Q a measure of security that reminded him of when he’d first found the Marketplace, where he could find partners who weren’t serial killers or on dangerous drugs or looking to push beyond his limits.

“Why?” Alec demanded. He reached down as if to take hold of Q’s arm, but stopped at the full body shudder that Q couldn’t suppress.

Q looked up, recognising what he saw in Alec’s eyes. He caught hints of it every time Bond came home from a mission, but he’d never seen it this bad before.

“I want to see what you can do, sir,” Q challenged softly. It had nothing to do with ‘why’ and everything to do with inciting Alec to let go, to cut open the wound and bleed out the poison building up inside.

Alec hissed in a breath and reached the last inch to grab Q’s arm. Then Q’s abdomen hit the bathroom counter, right arm twisted up behind his back, with Alec’s body trapping him. Q didn’t fight — not when Alec caught his hair and pulled sharply, baring his throat, and not when Alec twisted his arm up higher, forcing him to arch his back.

“And _we’re_ the idiots?” he asked, Russian accent creeping into his voice. “I’ll break you.”

Q closed his eyes and pushed back against Alec’s body, and thankfully he was aroused and interested, because if he stopped now, Q might end up begging for him to continue. He nodded as best he could, the sting in his scalp lighting sparks behind his eyes. “You can’t,” he said, though it came out more like a plea than a dare.

Alec cursed quietly. He released Q’s hair but didn’t step away. His fingers trailed down the side of Q’s face, brushing the corner of his mouth. “Limits?”

“My contract states no permanent marks and requires the use of condoms.”

Alec waited a moment. Then he asked, “Safeword?”

“I don’t need one, sir.”

“Q.”

With a frustrated huff, Q said, “I don’t need one, Alec. You know my limits. Or are you looking for an excuse not to take me?”

This time, the challenging words struck true. Alec kicked Q’s legs apart and dropped his free hand to Q’s hip, holding him steady as he pressed against Q’s arse. Q braced against the countertop, thinking that it would be a brilliant idea to move things along, very quickly. He shifted his hips and arched his back, dragging his body against Alec’s cock, and bit back a little laugh at the way Alec groaned.

When he stopped moving, Alec snarled, “Fucking tease.” He let go of Q’s hip and ran his hand up Q’s body, over his ribs and back and shoulderblade.

Q smiled and opened his eyes, looking into the mirror to meet Alec’s gaze. “Try me, sir.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Sunday, 1 January 2012**

Bond suppressed his immediate urge to rush back into the bathroom and attack when he heard the thump of something — someone — hitting the bathroom counter. His heart rate immediately increased, and adrenaline and fear shot through him at the knowledge of what was happening.

But instead of rushing in there like the needlessly over-protective bastard Q had asked him not to be, he stood still, staring down at the clothes in his hands. Q wanted this. Alec needed this. And as much as Bond didn’t want to admit to himself that theirs wasn’t a ‘normal’ relationship, the fact was that Q wasn’t emotionally invested in him. He was a contractual employee, no matter how much Bond wanted to pretend otherwise.

Which, of course, changed nothing for Bond. He needed and wanted Q despite...

No, that wasn’t right. Bond didn’t need and want Q _despite_ his contract and his service. It was _because_ of it, or at least a big part of it. Q was gorgeous and brilliant and unbelievably sexy, and Bond cherished him for those things. But the contract... with it came loyalty and trust, and gave Bond something solid to believe in and hold onto when he wasn’t there. What they had was far superior to anything else he’d ever experienced. And now Bond knew what the next two and a half years could be like.

Apparently, however, it left room for odd little glitches like this, when Bond had no idea what he was doing. There was too much to process. Q was Bond’s. But he wasn’t. Q was... He was... his own person. His own, not emotionally invested person _who wore Bond’s fucking collar_.

He growled in confusion and annoyance and walked to the bathroom door, but stopped before he could open it.

Q wasn’t emotionally invested. He didn’t actually love Bond. And though the balance they’d found in the last six months had brought Bond deep reassurance, the fact was that the contract ended in two and a half years, unless Bond could convince Q to renew it.

A tiny, selfish, viciously possessive part of Bond wanted to ask about the lifetime contract.

Maybe this, tonight, could help give Q the last piece of the puzzle he wanted from his contracts. Not just rough sex, but pain — the sort of pain that Bond could have provided after his worst missions. Or, could provide if he wasn’t deeply afraid of scaring Q away, of pushing him too far, of igniting a spark of wariness or fear that Bond didn’t know if he could stand seeing in Q’s eyes. If they tried it this way, and Q didn’t like it, he would end up hating Alec, not Bond.

Two choices, Q had said. Leave or stay and watch.

Bond pushed open the door to see Alec had Q pressed against the vanity counter, one hand twisted up behind his back. They both turned towards him, Alec guiltily, Q with absolute calm. Abruptly, Alec released Q’s wrist and stepped away, looking as if he had no idea what to say — as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Something shifted inside Bond — a sense of relief from a worry he hadn’t fully acknowledged. This would change nothing about Q’s loyalty to Bond. As much as Q would enjoy this, he wasn’t doing it because he was dissatisfied with Bond. He was doing it _for_ Bond. And Bond knew all too well that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing to enjoy doing something for the benefit of another.

Q gave Bond a very faint smile, without a hint of resentment or discomfort at the intrusion. Then he twisted to look back over his shoulder at Alec. With casual scorn, he asked, “Done already, then?”

Bond wanted to laugh at Q’s very blatant attempt to provoke Alec. It was perfect, and Bond knew damn well it would have worked if he weren’t standing there. But though a part of him wanted to leave, to pretend that this wasn’t happening, the much larger part of him needed to stay. To see how Q reacted, to see for himself just how much Q could take.

When Alec still hesitated, Bond kicked the bathroom door closed and dropped the clothes on the counter. He took Alec’s place behind Q and put an arm around his body, leaning in to whisper, “All right?” in his ear.

Q gave a soft, affirmative hum and pushed back against Bond’s body. Taking the hint, Bond stepped away from the vanity, pulling Q with him, and turned them both to face Alec. Q’s hands slid back, fingers catching on Bond’s waistband as Bond stroked one hand over his bare chest. With the other hand, he pulled sharply back on Q’s hair.

Then he gave Alec a challenging look. He never had been very good at watching.

Alec’s hesitance disappeared. He closed the step to Q and took hold of his jaw before kissing him, hard enough that he pushed Q’s body back against Bond. Q made a small, desperate sound and his fists clenched around Bond’s waistband as he spread his legs, surrendering to them both.

When Alec stopped to breathe, he shot Bond a look that was almost stunned. “Fucking hell,” he said, hands sliding down to Q’s upper arms. He held Q steady and bent to bite at his throat hard enough to make Q gasp.

Bond couldn’t help but close his eyes at the sound. Even now, after all this time, the sound of Q’s surrender was incredibly intoxicating to Bond. For a brief, brutally joyful moment, Bond thought about what they could do to Q, working together. They were no strangers to this sort of arrangement, and the thought of watching Q come undone under their dual caresses was enough to make Bond’s breath catch. They could bring Q _such_ pleasure... as long as Alec didn’t cross the line.

Not that Bond knew where that line was, because he’d been too afraid to push.

Alec had no such concerns.

Bond tightened his grip on Q’s hair and pushed his head forward to bare the back of his neck. He licked the sharp vertebrae, then bit hard enough to leave a mark. Q whimpered, trapped, and pushed insistently back against Bond’s cock. The wet tracksuit bottoms and trousers between them were a negligible barrier.

Alec released Q’s throat long enough to growl at Bond, “Don’t stop.” Then he bit again, this time lower down. Judging by the sharp, pained sound Q made — a sound that dissolved into a broken moan — Alec had found his collarbone.

Freed to move a bit, Q bowed his head more, giving Bond free access to the back of his neck. His fingers tugged insistently on Bond’s waistband.

Bond hesitated because he knew that this was for Alec, and Alec would want to fuck Q. More than that, Bond also wanted to watch Q, to see if he could really enjoy the handling that went beyond simple roughness.

Alec lifted his head again and dragged his fingers through Q’s hair. “Bed,” he said, looking past Q to Bond.

With a quick glance at the shower, Bond turned Q towards the door and gave him a push. Q caught his balance gracefully and went right for the bed.

“Off,” Bond said, gesturing at Q’s rain-damp trousers. They both stripped, and Bond dropped his clothes on the floor. Before Q could try to pick everything up, Bond caught him and pulled him down onto the bed. He twisted around to lie on the pillows and tugged Q down on top of him. He looked up into Q’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or fear, but all he could see was raw _want_.

Then, with another quietly desperate sound, Q kissed him, spreading his legs to straddle him more comfortably. He ran his hands up over Bond’s chest and shoulders to brace his weight up, fingers toying with Bond’s hair. He arched his back and pressed his hips down, grinding his cock down against Bond’s, a bit harder than he normally would have, and the moan that followed was shaped almost like Bond’s name.

He heard Alec come out of the bathroom; he’d turned off the water and apparently looted the cupboard under the sink. A strip of condoms hit the bed near Bond’s side. “Hold him.”

Bond didn’t hesitate. He wrapped one arm around Q’s shoulders to tangle in his collar, and the other over Q’s neck to hold him by the hair. One of the first things Bond had learned about Q was that he had a cat-like response to being held down by his nape or hair — he would barely move if Bond used just the right kind of painful pressure.

When he did it now, Q whimpered and went completely still, bonelessly compliant under Bond’s hold. His breath came in sharp little pants, but there was no hint of fear in him.

Then Alec knelt on the bed behind Q and ripped open a condom packet. Q fought the pull of the collar to mouth at Bond’s neck and arched his back up, raising his arse. His inhale was a sharp, sudden gasp as Alec pushed inside Q, slow but rough. Bond nearly protested the harsh treatment, but he held his tongue, recognising that curious mixture of ecstasy and pain on Q’s face.

Q’s head came up, and he whispered, “Oh, god. Please, sir. Please.” His hips bucked, cock sliding against Bond’s.

“Fuck,” Alec said roughly. He slipped a hand between Q’s hip and Bond’s leg as he pushed deeper inside. Q let out a high, desperate sound, fists clenching against Bond’s pillow. Alec growled out, “Fucking hell, Q.”

Entranced, Bond tugged Q’s hair to pull him into a kiss, capturing his gasped breaths. He thought he’d seen every facet of Q’s pleasure and need, but this was new. Bond could look in from the outside, participating but not caught up in the fog of desperate desire that clouded his thoughts every time.

Bond heard Alec groan quietly. Q’s body pressed down against Bond’s, and Q whispered, “God. Please,” at the rough drag of his cock against Bond’s.

Alec leaned down, heavy enough that his weight drove the breath from Bond’s lungs, with Q trapped between them. “You don’t fucking come until we’re both satisfied,” he said, words taking on the clipped, harsh accent of his youth as happened when he’d let down his guard. “Understand?”

Q nodded as best he could with Bond’s hand in his hair. The subtle edge of pain was gone from his expression. “Yes, sir,” he gasped out.

Bond growled and pulled hard on Q’s hair to expose his throat again. He could feel both Q’s and Alec’s weight pushing into him, but he still had room to push back. He thrust up hard against Q’s body, enough for Alec to feel it, and leaned up to bite Q’s lips in order to capture the gasp he knew would come.

Caught between Alec and Bond, Q dug his fingers into the pillow and struggled to find a rhythm, but Alec stopped him. Both hands went to Q’s hips as he straightened, only to fuck him hard and fast, harder than Bond had ever dared. Q let out a desperate cry, pleading words breaking from him. He could only manage maddening little brushes, too light, against Bond’s cock.

It would be too much for Bond to start thrusting against Q. He knew the effect rough sex had on Q, even without a hand on him. So he relaxed his hold just enough to allow himself to shift under Q, moving up on the mattress until he was leaning against the headboard, Q’s face just inches from his lap. He tugged at Q’s hair, forcing his neck into a painful arch, so he could meet Q’s eyes.

Bond hadn’t imagined that it would be like this. It was dirty and painful for Q and utterly hot, but what made it truly enjoyable was that he was still with them. He wasn’t incidental or peripheral to what was happening. Despite everything Alec was doing, Q was just as focused on Bond as on Alec.

“Don’t look away,” he warned, releasing the collar to reach for the strip of condoms at his side. He tore the wrapper with his teeth, enjoying watching the way Q’s body moved under the power of Alec’s hard thrusts. Finally, he got the condom rolled in place. He never looked away from Q as he pushed Q back down, guiding Q’s mouth to his cock.

Q gasped in a single breath, and he started to go slow, as he usually did, with long, teasing licks and gentle pressure. Then it was Bond’s turn to gasp as Q took him all the way into his throat with a strangled cough, the pressure unexpectedly tight and hot. Bond looked up to see Alec’s hand in the middle of Q’s back, holding him down. Alec never stopped fucking, ruthlessly hard, as he stared down at Q.

Seconds passed before he moved his hand to the side of the bed. He leaned down as he thrust inside, and Q lifted his head enough to inhale sharply. “Please —”

“Stop fucking around,” Alec said, looking up at James. The darkness was still there in his green eyes. “No gag reflex?”

“No,” Bond ground out. He didn’t have any leverage to move his hips, so he used his grip on Q’s hair to push him down — all the way down — to prove his point. “Fuck,” he cursed, closing his eyes to better focus on the incredible feeling of Q’s throat working involuntarily around his cock.

Between it all — Q’s desperate, hushed noises and his tongue and the way Alec’s sharp thrusts moved Q’s whole body — Bond couldn’t have lasted if he’d tried. He gave in, letting Alec set Q’s rhythm until he was close, too close, and then he twisted both fists in Q’s hair and pulled sharply down, and came to the sound of Q’s choked-off moans.

Alec barely lasted a minute longer before he finished with a torrent of snarled curses that Bond, for all of their awkward, unspoken intimacy, had never heard. When he pulled out, Q stayed on his knees, head resting against Bond’s hip, body trembling.

“Get rid of these, then come back here,” Alec said a bit breathlessly as he laid down on his back across the foot of the bed. As Q moved, easing the condom off Bond, Alec asked, “Do you give a damn about smoking indoors still, or does tonight not fucking count?”

Tonight counted for a lot of things, but worrying about smoke in his flat wasn’t one of them. Bond felt a sense of incredible relief as he watched Q take the other condom and find the wrappers, his fluid, relaxed movements at odds with the evidence of painful, unsatisfied arousal. There was no regret or fear, and Bond saw their future open up even further. “Tonight doesn’t count,” he finally said.

“Cigarettes. Ashtrays,” Alec told Q.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and looked to Bond. He was a wreck, hair still wet from the rain and spiky from Bond’s hands. He radiated a quiet, peaceful sense of acceptance.

Then Q left for the bathroom, and Alec moved from the foot of the bed to the other side, sprawling with one arm across his eyes. There were more cuts on his forearm, ones Bond had missed in his earlier emergency first aid.

“You all right?” Alec asked, forcing himself to take a casual tone, and not quite succeeding.

“Better than,” Bond said honestly. In fact, he considered thanking Alec, but this was not the time.

Alec nodded slightly, breathing easier. “We’re not...” He moved his arm and cracked one green eye open to look at Bond. “Should I go?”

Bond sighed. “So far, this has worked out to everyone’s advantage,” he said, tipping his head to look at Alec. “But you still need to calm down, and Q...” He turned to watch Q walk from the ensuite to the hallway door. “It’s only fair.”

Alec huffed out a laugh and covered his eyes again, shifting to get comfortable. “If you’re not throwing me out, I’m not nearly done with him,” he said, grinning slowly. “Christ, he’s fucking good.”

“Yes, he is,” Bond agreed. “But there are rules. Never without a good reason. And never without me.”

Surprised, Alec lowered his arm to look at Bond. Very cautiously, he said, “I expected you to say this is a one-time thing.”

Bond swallowed against the silence he wanted to indulge in. This came dangerously close to ‘talking about it’, which he had no interest in. “I’m not going to leave you in the cold for a relationship I have no reason to believe will last longer than the five-year contract,” he told Alec quietly in Russian. “And he wants it, too.”

Alec stared at him, and too late, Bond remembered that if there was one person in the world who could read him — who knew him better than anyone else did, even Q — it was Alec. But then, to Bond’s relief, Alec sighed and covered his eyes again, reaching up with the other hand to adjust the pillow. “Right. You want more, or do you just want to watch? Or hold him?” he added, grinning.

“We have cuffs,” Bond said with a smirk.

“Fucking brilliant,” Alec approved.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sunday, 1 January 2012**

Aching for release and dazed from the sort of experience he hadn’t had for more than two years, Q rushed to clean up. His mind was working at half-speed at best — an incredible feeling for someone who was always on, always distracted. Not that he wasn’t distracted now, only this time he was wondering what Bond and Alec might want from him next.

Q finally found the cigarettes on the table by the living room balcony doors. He took the never-used ashtray out of the drawer, went to the guest bath to dampen two towels, and hurried back to the bedroom, his mental countdown clock alarmingly high. Belatedly, he remembered getting towels from the ensuite, though he’d forgotten to bring them out before going to find the cigarettes.

God, he was a mess. But he felt too damned good to care, so he just went to the foot of the bed, where his mind locked up again. One ashtray, two smokers, no convenient table.

No, there was the breakfast tray on the table by the window. He went to get it, hoping they hadn’t noticed his hesitation. And he’d left the towels in the guest bathroom, too.

“I think we broke him,” Alec said with a laugh. It was more relaxed but still sharp, still dangerous, and Q wondered what he would do. More to the point, what Bond would let him do.

It was strange, feeling protected like that. As he put everything on the breakfast tray and brought it over to the bed, he remembered the feeling of constant irritation from monitors at the BDSM play places, always asking if he was all right, as if a safeword wasn’t enough — or too much, in most cases. But the resentment didn’t come, and he wondered why.

“Temporarily bent, maybe,” Bond said with a soft, affectionate smile at Q. “He doesn’t break easily.”

There was a careful two feet of space between Alec and Bond, as if they were hoping to deny the intimacy they’d shared just ten minutes earlier. Unsurprised, Q put the tray into that space. Then he picked up the cigarettes and offered one to Alec first, as a guest.

Alec took the cigarette, allowed Q to light it, and then leaned back against the pillows. He was still moving stiffly, but Q decided not to suggest another painkiller yet. A couple more hours would be better, especially given how both Alec and Bond tended to abuse chemicals to keep their bodies functional in the field. Instead, he lit Bond’s cigarette and knelt unobtrusively back.

The silence was more comfortable, this time. Q remembered the towels _again_ , and considered getting them, but by now, there was no point. He might as well offer to take them both into the shower to clean up — a thought which only served to distract Q even more. It took him an interminably long time to snap out of that little fantasy and decide instead to get them both drinks.

As he left, Alec said something in Russian, and Bond let out an amused breath. Making a mental note that it was possibly _critical_ that he learn Russian as soon as possible, Q went back out to the living room. He poured the scotch before going to get the vodka out of the freezer, and then had to go back for the scotch that he’d forgotten on the bar.

God, he hoped they weren’t done with him. If they decided to end the night and go to sleep, he might well die.

He brought them their drinks, careful not to spill anything as he inched up from the foot of the bed. Then he moved back and knelt quietly, struggling as always to find some measure of composure despite the need still burning through him. At times like this, he hated Chris for not helping him learn better self-control.

Finally, as the smell of smoke began to fade, Alec said, “Q. Get rid of this.”

Q looked up, and then berated himself for not realising they were both done with their cigarettes and not likely to light more. He moved forward to get the tray, backed up, and then went to put it in the hallway, where the stale smell wouldn’t fill the bedroom. When he went back inside, he closed the door and looked to Bond and Alec for instructions.

Bond was just watching him, but Alec’s fingers twitched in a beckoning motion. Q was moving before he was consciously aware of it, and he suddenly wondered if Alec had experience with submissives in the BDSM scene. He didn’t _think_ Alec was Marketplace. No, he definitely wasn’t — or at least he hadn’t been almost two years ago, when he’d looked at Q’s collar in the Alaskan hospital.

Heart pounding, Q crawled up from the foot of the bed. He shivered when Alec’s hand went into his hair and pulled. He ended up between them again, flat on his stomach. Alec’s fingers moved slowly, tugging hard enough to sting and make Q’s breath catch. Q turned his head so he could breathe, closed his eyes, and tried not to get distracted by the soft, welcome friction of the duvet under him, shifting as Alec and Bond both moved.

Bond took hold of Q’s hands and guided them up the headboard, pressing his fingers around one of the bars. Then he scratched slowly down Q’s arms, and Q muffled his groan in the space between the pillows. They were going to tease, and he was going to die from it. He knew it.

Alec tugged sharply on Q’s hair, turning his gasp into a tight, thin sound as his neck strained. He tightened his grasp on the bar and pushed closer to Bond. “Just how long will he hold onto that bar?” Alec asked conversationally. He’d rolled onto his side, and now he moved his other hand to touch Q’s face.

“Until we tell him to let go,” Bond replied with complete confidence. He pressed his face into the hair at Q’s nape and dragged his teeth along the ridge of Q’s spine. “Not that I’ve really tested the theory.”

Q whimpered and focused on holding onto the bar. It was reflexive to open his mouth and lick at Alec’s fingers. When one fingertip pressed against his teeth, he bit gently and then sucked, right as Bond bit his nape harder, making him gasp around Alec’s finger. He didn’t just want Bond to fuck him — he _needed_ it. And Bond knew it, too. Or Alec, delightfully rough and _new_ , but Bond was better at reading what Q wanted. It wasn’t about him, though, and he knew that Alec and Bond would push each other into not giving in before they were both ready.

“What can we do to you?” Alec asked, leaning close to Q’s ear. “How can we get you to let go?”

There was no possible way he could answer, even without Alec’s fingers still on his mouth. Instead of trying to remember how to speak, he sucked on Alec’s fingertips and let out a soft, pleading whimper.

Bond chuckled, the sound far darker than any laugh Q had heard from him before. He continued his slow path down Q’s body, nails and teeth pulling bright sparks of pain in the skin over his spine. “Be creative, Alec,” he challenged. Then he reached one hand under Q’s body, timing a harsh bite on the bottom edge of Q’s shoulder blade with a brutal twist of Q’s nipple.

Q’s sharp, sudden cry was muffled almost casually by Alec’s hand over his mouth. Very calmly, his voice full of layers Q wouldn’t have been able to interpret even under the best of circumstances, Alec asked, “Do you still have that knife you got from that American SEAL?”

“Fucking hell,” Bond muttered, but his body didn’t stiffen in the way that was his usual response to the threat of violence. He tightened his arm around Q and licked gently at the bite he’d just left. “It’s in the safe.”

Alec released his hold on Q and moved off the bed. A knife. Q’s heart pounded, deafeningly loud in his ears. Bond wasn’t stopping him. They both knew Q’s limits, and of all the people in the world, he knew they wouldn’t leave scars, even though... even though if they did, he wouldn’t be upset. He wouldn’t tell Chris or anyone at the Marketplace at all. He rather _liked_ the thought, though he wondered if he should.

He didn’t realise that fear and excitement and need had him making small, desperate sounds with every breath until Bond twisted and leaned up to bite his ear, followed by a quiet hushing noise. Then he moved, saying, “Let go of the headboard,” and, “Move over,” until he’d taken Q’s place in the centre of the bed to sit propped up against the headboard. He sat Q between his legs and pulled Q’s back against his chest, so they both faced the far wall, with the ensuite door off to the right. Then Bond hooked his feet around Q’s ankles to spread his legs wide. Q was completely trapped, held in place by Bond’s strength, laid open for Alec.

“I’m not going to ask if this is fine, because it isn’t, but it’s what you’ve wanted from me for a long time.” In a paradoxically gentle and affectionate movement, he bent his head and nuzzled at Q’s hair before continuing in a whisper that wouldn’t travel beyond Q’s ear, “Hold my hands, Q. If you want to stop for any reason, at any time, you let go.”

Another time, Q might have protested that a safe-signal wasn’t necessary. Now, he just held on tighter and nodded, trying to get his breathing under control as he listened to the distant electronic beeps of the safe. He tried to show Bond how fine this actually was, rubbing against his face and body, needing more contact from him. This would have been good if Bond had turned Alec loose with him and then left, but having Bond here — having Bond _accepting_ of this — was perfect.

And knowing that this was as much for Q as it was for Alec...

“Thank you, James,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Bond’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the shift so insignificant that Q probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t been pressed so close. Bond nodded and looked up at the sound of the safe door closing. “We both know your contractual limits,” he said, this time loud enough for Alec to hear, “so relax and enjoy it.”

Q opened his eyes and watched Alec stalk towards the bed, scarred and bloody and bruised. With the knife in his hand and a dangerous light in his green eyes, he should have terrified Q, but Q couldn’t remember ever feeling so safe in his life. He held Bond’s hands tightly enough that his fingers ached and let his head rest back against Bond’s abdomen, thinking that this was very nearly perfect.

 

~~~

 

It was one thing for Bond to trust Alec with his life; Q was something else entirely, and Bond nearly reached out to stop Alec. He forced himself to stay still, though, watching as Alec scratched lines over Q’s chest. He never broke skin, never cut or drew blood, and Bond was able to relax and hold Q more tightly. Q’s skin was pale and silk-fine; the lightest touch marked him, and soon there was hardly an inch of his chest that hadn’t been touched by the point of the knife.

But it worked. For both of them, it worked, because as Q’s body tensed until he was trembling against Bond’s hold, breath coming in sharp gasps, hips twitching pointlessly, the lingering shadow bled from Alec’s expression, replaced by much simpler fascination and desire.

Alec dragged the knife down Q’s body, etching sweeping curves over his hips, bringing the point dangerously close to Q’s erect cock, where the welts disappeared under his dark hair. He pushed Q’s legs open even more, so that Bond also felt the strain, and traced hash marks down Q’s inner thighs.

Then he tossed the knife aside and leaned in to take hold of Q’s hair. “Find a condom,” he said, giving Q a tug to get him moving.

Q let go of Bond’s hands reluctantly, with another quiet whimper. He didn’t bother looking for the condoms lost in the rumpled duvet; he crawled over to his bedside table instead.

Alec turned and looked at Bond. The feral, haunted anger was gone. He didn’t say anything, but Bond knew what he was thinking. He knew that this had helped, perhaps more than he’d expected. Alec had tested himself — held an innocent under his deadly hands and looked into the dark chasm between being a soldier and being a murderer, and he’d come away with the knowledge that he hadn’t crossed the line. It was a rush, responding to Q’s trust in the humanity that sometimes, on nights like these, even they weren’t convinced they still had.

Bond sat up a little further, tucking his legs underneath him. Whatever Alec needed, Bond would let him have, but he wasn’t going to lie there passively again. And he was going to make sure that he was the one who got Q off.

Q returned to them, carrying a strip of condoms, rather than just one, as well as a bottle of lubricant. He ripped one condom off the strip, set everything else down on the duvet, and turned his attention to Alec, who was sitting near the foot of the bed. After tearing open the condom, Q crawled forward.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Alec breathed only a few seconds later, as Q rolled the condom into place with his mouth. As Q started to move, slow and sensuous, Alec’s hands went to Q’s head, holding him gently this time, giving him the freedom to move.

For the first time tonight, Bond was the one who was mesmerized, frozen by the sight of Q kneeling up, legs spread, directly in Bond’s line of sight. He knew Q was presenting himself like this deliberately to provoke Bond into participating, and he was struck by the knowledge that Q wanted him — Q _still wanted him_ , despite how rough Alec was being with him.

When he could finally move, he shuffled up the bed on his knees, reaching for the condoms and lubricant. He tore open a condom packet and rolled it on, and then covered his fingers and cock with lubricant.

Earlier, Alec had just taken Q, with no preparation at all. And though such rough handling went against all of Bond’s instincts, he reminded himself of how much Q had enjoyed what Alec had done. So Bond pushed two fingers inside Q and was rewarded with a high, muffled whimper. Q’s hips bucked, pushing back hard against Bond’s hand.

“Q,” Bond whispered, twisting his fingers for only a few seconds before he gave in to the desperate need that burned in them both. He wiped his hand on the duvet and pushed his cock inside, struggling to go slowly. Q spread his legs even more, encouraging Bond to go deeper, until his hips were pressed to Q’s arse. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Bond wrapped one hand around Q’s hipbone, holding him steady. With his other hand, he reached out to pull at Q’s collar, knowing that Q wouldn’t stop pleasuring Alec even if it meant he had to gasp for air every time he lifted his head.

Q’s groans were muffled, but Bond felt his tension — his desperation — in the way his body tightened around Bond’s cock. He shifted to brace against Bond’s thrusts and must have changed what he was doing to Alec, because Alec growled out a quiet curse.

Only a few minutes later, Alec caught Q’s hair and pulled him almost all the way off. “Oh, fuck. Fucking hell, Q,” he grated out over another of Q’s groans. With more room to move, Q met Bond’s next thrust and rolled his hips, just as he knew Bond liked so much.

Bond’s breath caught as he stared down at Q. Wanting more contact, Bond bent over, pressing his body against Q’s back. He braced one hand on the bed and slid the other over Q’s chest, finding the welts left by Alec’s knife. He traced the lines with his thumb and scratched with his fingers, certain that the salty sweat of his hands had to sting like hell over the wounds.

Q whined insistently, arching his back to push into Bond’s touch and brace harder against Bond’s thrusts. He gasped in breaths and worked at Alec’s cock until, with a sharp Russian shout, Alec lifted his hips and pushed Q’s head down. Q’s hands fisted in the duvet and his whole body trembled. As soon as Alec’s grasp relaxed, he pulled his head up.

“Please. James, please. God, James,” he begged.

A spike of pure want coursed through Bond, and he tugged Q backwards a few inches to give him room. He stopped thrusting long enough to grab at Q’s wrists and pulled them quickly behind Q’s back. Q fell forward between Alec’s legs and had just enough time to turn his head before he hit the bed. Bond held his wrists with one hand and pushed between Q’s shoulder blades with the other, forcing Q’s chest flat on the bed. Then he started thrusting hard and fast, relentlessly chasing his own release.

“James. James, please. I can’t,” Q pleaded, his voice breaking.

“Fuck,” Alec whispered over Q, looking from Q to Bond and back. He pulled off the condom and then twisted around so he could lean down on the bed. He brushed Q’s hair away from his face, staring in fascination.

“God, Q,” Bond gasped out. “So fucking perfect.” He moved his hand from Q’s back to pull on the collar, forcing Q into a cruel arch. He listened to Q’s gasps, waiting for that perfect instant when the only air he got was at Bond’s discretion. That choked, pleading gasp came only moments later, and Bond had just enough time to demand, “Now, Q,” before his own orgasm overwhelmed him.

He felt Q’s body go tight around him. Q gasped for air, and before Bond closed his eyes to lose himself in the feeling, he saw Alec take hold of Q’s face and hold him still for a kiss.

Slowly, as the pleasure receded, leaving Bond breathless and shaking, he relaxed his hold on Q’s collar. He released Q’s wrists and withdrew with a quiet, exhausted groan. Alec let go of Q, who knelt back and leaned against Bond’s body. He twisted to look over his shoulder at Bond with dark, unfocused eyes. Then he reached up to pull Bond into a lazy kiss, radiating contentment and satisfaction.

Breathless, Bond stripped off the condom, knotted it, and threw it in the direction of the bedside table. Then he laid back down, pulling Q with him, and pressed his body close against Q’s back. Once he had Q settled, he lifted his head to meet Alec’s eyes, hoping he wouldn’t leave.

 

~~~

 

Feeling unusually self-conscious, Alec stared across the bed. He could just see the raised red welts over Q’s ribs, and he had to close his eyes, remembering the way Q’s breath hitched and stuttered, not with fear but with need. Q’s surrender had been complete and unreserved. He’d _wanted_ Alec, despite everything that Alec was, despite everything in Alec’s past, everything he did for work and a country that wasn’t properly his but was all he had.

And it wasn’t just Q; it was Bond, too. It wasn’t even their unspoken reciprocal effort to put each other back together when it all fell to shit. This was Bond giving Alec the only thing that was precious to him.

Once, back when Alec had been young and stupid, he’d thought that when — not if, but _when_ , which was how naive he’d been... He’d thought that when he and Bond found themselves wives, maybe they’d all stay close. Maybe close enough to share. Because the thought of someone taking _his_ place in Bond’s life awoke a possessive, territorial monster inside him, not because he and Bond were fucking — that was incidental and rare — but because they bled together. They bled _for_ each other, and the thought of watching Bond go into a home where Alec couldn’t just walk in anytime he chose, of him closing a door that Alec couldn’t open, of him bitching to someone else and letting someone else bandage him or just be there for him... It was intolerable.

Did Bond feel the same way? That could be why... this.

Movement caught his eye. Q was staring at him, staring _into_ him, as if he could see Alec’s thoughts. He lifted one hand to Alec, the movement graceful and inviting.

Tentatively, with an uncertainty that he never felt, Alec moved up to Q’s other side and took his hand, carefully not looking at Bond. Q’s hand was thin and light and warm, and his fingers curled around Alec’s without hesitation, as if he could try and hold Alec in place.

The feeling of belonging — of being _wanted_ — threatened to crack through Alec’s armour. He closed his eyes, refusing to give up that last defence, and instead concentrated on the physical reality of the moment. He got an arm under Q’s pillow and moved closer, stopping only when he could feel Q breathing against him. The movement of his chest pressed Bond’s arm against Alec.

A flinch from any of them would have shattered the moment, but it didn’t happen. Slowly, they settled together, as if this was somehow all right or normal.

Gently, Q released him to wrap an arm around his chest. Then he kicked at the duvet, prompting them all to shift and move until he worked it free. Alec reached down and tugged the fabric up, settling it over them all.

But the warmth of their bodies wasn’t _his_ warmth, and the feeling of Bond’s knuckles pressed against his side reminded him that he was the outsider. Bond and Q belonged to each other, not to him.

“Should I get the lights when I go?” he asked casually. Thanks to a lifetime of growing up a transplanted Brit at the tail end of the Soviet Union’s dominion and being hated in the Navy and now being trained by MI6 to live and breathe lies, he was very good at deception.

“No need to get up,” Bond said around a yawn. He moved, and Alec tensed reflexively, feeling the touch of callused fingers skim up his side, to his shoulder. Just as casually, Bond said, “We fall asleep with the lights on all the time.”

He was saying Alec could stay. And he _wanted_ to stay, but if he stayed, he knew he wouldn’t want to leave.

Q’s leg moved, just enough to rest against Alec’s. Bond’s fingers pressed into his shoulder before the touch eased, though he didn’t pull away.

And there really wasn’t a choice. It was too late for him to even consider leaving. He inched closer, so he could feel Q’s breath on his shoulder, and he reached up to touch Bond’s hand and Q’s hair. The beard he didn’t want scratched against the back of his hand, and he said, “I’m borrowing your razor tomorrow. I hate this fucking beard.”

“Touch his razor and I’ll stab you, sir,” Q threatened drowsily. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked to keep an edge on it.”

The ‘sir’ stole Alec’s breath just as much as the casual, comfortable familiarity, irreverent and welcoming. Alec resisted the urge to kiss Q only because Q wasn’t his, except for maybe a little part of him, as Bond allowed.

Bond moved his hand from Alec’s shoulder, working it between them to hug Q close without pulling him away from Alec. “He can’t go to the office looking like that.”

“I’ll shave him tomorrow. You’re both too lazy to do it properly,” Q scolded. “While I’m doing that, you can find somewhere open for breakfast.”

“Well, given that that means I’ll get the shower first, I won’t object,” Bond said, voice rich with amusement. He propped up on an elbow so he could give Q a gentle kiss on his ear, and Alec watched the fascinated, entranced way he studied Q’s face. Then he looked up and met Alec’s eyes, but there was no territorial warning there; only a brief, soft smile before he settled back down.

Silently, Alec allowed himself to relax enough that he’d be able to sleep. He rarely slept with anyone in his bed for the same reasons as Bond — violent nightmares that led to an even more violent awakening. But Q had been sharing Bond’s bed for almost two years now, and Bond and Alec had seen the worst of what night could bring out in them both.

For once in his life, he could actually let himself sleep, trusting that even if the worst happened, he wouldn’t be alone to deal with it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Monday, 2 April 2012**

“Just about two years. Have you settled in yet?”

Out of habit, Q sat up in his computer chair, though the call was to the flat’s landline, not a video conference. Of course, this particular caller wouldn’t know how to use a video conference — not unless she had a technically adept slave staying with her.

“Yes, Trainer,” he said, amazed at how nervous he was, talking to Imala Anderson. In semi-retirement, Anderson was a legend among Marketplace trainers, not just for her work in predictive behaviour analysis but in everything from interrogation and indoctrination techniques to the proper care and cleaning of silver antiques, old paintings, and fine silk. She’d been Q’s trainer for his last month before his sale on _Le Nautille_.

“What have you learned so far?” she asked.

Q had been prepared for the question — an awkward one, given that very few people in the Marketplace knew Bond’s true identity. Most still knew him as Richard Sterling, international sales rep for Universal Exports. Because of the MI6 operation onboard _Le Nautille_ two years ago, the ship’s captain had been informed of the truth. He had no idea if anyone had told Anderson, though.

“I have a much better understanding now of what Richard requires from me, Trainer. He’s not a conventional owner. I’m afraid he had to explain what he needed.”

Anderson tsked at that. “We taught you better,” she scolded. “So, tell me why.”

“Perception and bias,” he said, remembering the hours-long talks he’d once had with her. For a woman who owned a single computer and rarely used it, she’d shown surprising insight into Q’s field of study, and their talks had helped him tease out possible answers to some of the more convoluted questions of ethics in artificial intelligence.

He fell into that routine with her now, allowing her to lead the conversation and answering with his insights. He took care not to reveal any of Bond’s secrets, but it was easy enough to cite owner confidentiality the few times her questions came too close to sensitive subjects.

Then, out of nowhere, she interrupted to ask, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Q froze. “I — I try my best to serve —”

“You can’t hide it from me, kiddo,” she interrupted. “It’s here in your notes. You talked about it with Parker a while back.”

Q closed his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes, Trainer.”

“Uh huh.” He heard a familiar noise and pictured her sitting at the desk in her study, tapping her tortoiseshell pen against her desk. She took notes by hand, endlessly, and demanded the same of her clients. Q had filled four notebooks in the short time he’d been in her household, and he’d hated hand-writing every single line. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing, Trainer. I have three years left —”

“And your contract is now open for renewal. Has he brought it up?”

Q flinched. “No, Trainer.”

“Will he?”

“I couldn’t say. I’m sorry, Trainer.” It was formal and evasive and they both knew it. But as attached as Bond seemed to be, he hadn’t once brought up the question of Q’s contract. Maybe it was Bond’s fatalistic attitude regarding his missions, or maybe he suspected that he could have a normal relationship and was just biding his time, waiting out the contract.

Anderson huffed. “Okay. Any problems or concerns?”

 _Other than being not quite halfway through and already dreading the end?_ Q thought, though he didn’t voice it. Instead he said, “No, Trainer.”

“It says in your file that you’re due for a medical exam. Anything I should know?”

Q grimaced. “No, Trainer. I’ll schedule it,” he said, wondering if he could just steal his file from Medical and scrub out all references to MI6. Probably not. At least there was a good selection of Marketplace-aware doctors in London.

“Okay, that’s all the boxes checked. Nothing else you need to discuss?”

Q knew that he should bring up the question of a future sale, if Bond didn’t ask about a contract renewal. It was never too early to start networking. But he had time. Three years. Three years in London, the same city as his brother, with a comfortable job. And if this all didn’t work out... maybe he’d stop trying. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be fair for him to go immediately into another contract, after being so happy here, with Bond. He’d naturally go in with expectations and comparisons, and both he and his owner would be miserable.

But he had time. He didn’t _need_ to make arrangements until his last year. So instead, he said, “No, Trainer. Thank you.”

“Tell your owner that if he wants to chat, I’m available. Just watch the time zones.”

“I’ll let him know, Trainer.”

“Be good, kiddo.”

When she rang off, Q sighed and rested his head in his hands, elbows propped on the edge of his desk. Then he got up, thinking he should probably make dinner, when his work mobile signalled an incoming text, from Danielle Marsh: _We need you at the office. Are you available?_

Bond was in the field, though he was due home any day. Q’s plans involved nothing more than coding and an early night to sleep. A part of him wanted to stay, just in case Bond came home and needed him, but he knew that Bond wouldn’t want him to pass up this opportunity.

He answered the text on the way to the bedroom to put his shoes on, and then sent a text to Bond’s personal mobile, letting him know that he’d be at MI6, just in case Bond managed to come home early. Hopefully, this would be the opportunity he’d been waiting for — a chance to get into the Quartermaster programme.

 

~~~

 

Bond was completely, totally, and thoroughly sick of coming home like this.

The damage wasn’t severe, but it was extensive. As happened all too often, he’d had to allow himself to be captured, only he hadn’t realised his enemies had an actual, honest-to-god medieval torture rack. Fortunately, they hadn’t bothered to search him beyond relieving him of his guns, so he had a knife on a spring in his sleeve — a gift from Q, who’d found it somewhere in TSS and cleaned it up.

Of course, after going to the trouble of getting caught, Bond had to wait to learn the location of his target, and they’d turned the wheel a few times too many for his liking by the time he cut himself free. He’d ignored the pain, killed his tormentors, and less than two hours later, had his target in custody and on a short plane ride back to London.

He came back to MI6 with the intention of filing his report, picking up some heavy painkillers from Medical, and going home to give Q free rein over his body. But he’d got Q’s text just as he was getting ready to leave, and decided to stick around to watch events unfold. He wanted Q in the Quartermaster programme, so there was no way he was going to interrupt what might be Q’s shot.

But it would be at least twenty minutes before Q got there, and longer to get settled into whatever project he would be given. Bond’s curiosity got the better of him, so he decided to see if Danielle was available.

The fact that she also had the most comfortable guest chairs in all of headquarters had absolutely nothing to do with it. With a slow and steady gait that probably made him look about eighty years old, Bond made his way up to TSS, and to Danielle’s office.

Despite the hour, Danielle was still there, though not in her office. He heard her voice in the hall outside the field team collaboration rooms, where she was issuing orders with all the confidence of a drill sergeant. She was still at it when Bond arrived. He silently counted _six_ teams. Apparently, someone had started a war and not informed him.

Finally she turned, looked him over from head to toe, and got that stern expression that warned him to brace for a scolding. “You,” she said, pointing imperiously towards her office. “Sit. Why on earth you’re even on your feet — Of course you wouldn’t go to Medical, oh, no. Tea,” she added in a louder voice as she herded Bond down the hall.

“I _did_ go to Medical,” Bond protested, refusing to allow himself any irritation that Danielle, for once, was more spry in her movements than he was. “There wasn’t much they could do beyond giving me more painkillers. I was hoping Q could take care of me.”

She settled behind her desk with a sigh. “He won’t be home by midnight. SHAPE’s been infiltrated,” she said grimly, referring to NATO’s supreme headquarters in Belgium.

Bond settled into the exquisitely soft chair across from Danielle’s desk, his ecstatic expression completely at odds with the concern he felt at Danielle’s bit of news. “He’s a bloody genius, you know,” he said with a contented groan. “He might surprise you.”

“I know. Which is why you should have a cup of tea and then go back to Medical, because he won’t be available until this is all sorted out. Really, James, who do you think asked him to come back in?” she pointed out.

Bond shot her a grateful glance. “I know you didn’t do it for me, but thank you. He won’t let you down,” he said with complete confidence.

“I’ve known that since he risked everything to bring you home.” She peered at him over her reading glasses. “One day, you’re going to tell me exactly how you met him. You go off on a cruise after weapons dealers, get yourself shot, and fly home from Alaska with your partner in crime and a genius. Only you, James.”

Bond laughed, holding his arms close to his body so as not to jostle them unnecessarily. “I’m just lucky that way,” he said easily. “Well, all right, so that’s not the best description of my usual brand of fortune, but it probably had to happen that way, for someone like me.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair’s soft cushions. “It’s been two years. I should probably do something. Not sure what, though. He’s not a fan of possessions.”

Danielle blinked at him. “‘Possessions’. Lovely, James. Really lovely. God save me from men,” she said with a sigh and looked back at her computer.

Bond shrugged, then winced at the ripple of pain it caused. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Danielle didn’t answer right away. Instead she typed, not even looking up when her assistant came in with tea for them both. Bond took the mug and looked at it, realising that it was office-standard: PG Tips, milk, sugar, all unasked-for.

He missed Q, who knew that in this mood, Bond would want his tea black, no sugar.

A few minutes later, after sipping with one hand and clicking with the other, Danielle said, “He has sixteen days’ leave he’s about to lose.” She turned and stared expectantly at Bond.

Bond took an unforgivably long time to realise what Danielle was hinting at. “Oh,” he finally said, raising his eyebrows at her. “He doesn’t fly. And it’s April — not very warm anywhere we could drive or take a train to,” he said thoughtfully.

“Terrible, isn’t it, that _all of Europe_ is so far across the Channel. I mean, it’s not as if one could drive there or take a ferry,” she said dryly. “Dear god, James, stop taking lessons in romance from my husband. Go find a good travel agent, put in for leave, and take Q somewhere nice. Somewhere _not_ in the British Isles.”

“If he pulls tonight off — which he will — taking two weeks’ leave won’t negatively affect his chances at landing in the Quartermaster programme, will it?” he asked tiredly. “I want him running my ops someday soon.”

“The only thing it will do is verify to the Psych team that he’s not a workaholic, like some Double O’s I could name.” Danielle gave Bond a sympathetic smile. “After his security breach, he should have been sacked — possibly arrested — but Geoffrey’s fully aware of how valuable he is, as am I. Trust me, James. Nothing will stop him.”

Bond nodded and allowed himself to think about what it would be like to have Q running his ops. It would be bloody _fantastic_ to know that Q was the mind behind his ops and the force behind the requests to get Bond whatever he needed to get the job done. Q would never concern himself with return on investment, political manoeuvrings, or overhead. He would always get Bond home, and he would always do it better than anyone else could.

“I’m thinking about asking him to marry me,” Bond said, surprising himself by voicing it out loud. The statement wasn’t exactly accurate — as soon as Q hit the two year mark, he became eligible for contract renewal. But the problem was that Bond didn’t just want another five years, five years of having a looming deadline that could end with Q leaving him. But the lifetime contract he’d read about... That would be something worth talking about. And, of course, if Q wanted it, Bond would marry him just to make sure he received all the benefits of an actual legal partnership.

Danielle’s eyes went wide. Then, to Bond’s relief, she broke into a glowing smile. “Oh! Oh, James, that would be _wonderful_. Oh, I’d hoped, but I never thought you’d actually have the sense.”

“I don’t have the best track record with that, do I?” he said with a wry smile. “So if you had to do it over again, and you were the one asking Mr Marsh to marry you, where would you take him for two weeks?”

“Mykonos or Hydra,” she answered unhesitatingly. “Mykonos has better nightlife, so you might prefer it. Hydra doesn’t even allow motorised vehicles, except for civic services. Travel there is by foot, bicycle, or donkey.”

“Like Mackinac Island, without the re-enactors,” he said with a chuckle. “Mykonos it is. One last question. Should I get rings? I already gave him a” — he hesitated — “a necklace. Something that means a lot to both of us. But rings are traditional.”

Danielle leaned back in her chair, watching him. “I’d normally say yes, but you wouldn’t be able to wear yours more than half the time, and then you risk a tan line. And he’s constantly putting his hands into computers.” She held up her left hand, currently bare of her wedding ring or the substantial diamond she occasionally wore. “Hazard of the profession, I’m afraid. But even if you don’t wear them all the time, it’s symbolic. That’s what matters.”

Bond nodded. “Thank you, Danielle. Wise and clever as always.” Then he sighed. “Just don’t... don’t give it away. Don’t even look at him with more affection than usual. The bloody genius will have me figured out before I’ve finished talking myself into it.”

She huffed in amusement. “At least I have faith in him. If you don’t ask him, I wouldn’t be surprised to find your roles reversed. Once he decides he wants something... well, I can’t imagine _anything_ stopping him. I’ve never seen someone so determined — and after over a year in our IT division. I suppose he was just weighing his options, hm?”

Bond considered telling her that it was at his own insistence, but decided against it in case it hurt Q’s chances by changing Danielle’s opinion of him. “I suppose he finally got bored of databases,” he said. “When does his leave expire? It’s going to take me a while to heal up this time, and I don’t want to be a useless old man the whole holiday.”

After a few clicks, she said, “His hire date, so you have a few months, and I can speak to Geoffrey. He hasn’t taken _any_ leave — not even a sick day. Considering that you hardly feed him, that speaks well for his dedication.”

With a laugh, Bond looked at Danielle with a wounded expression. “Honestly, Danielle, what must you think of me? We try, we really do. But it rarely ends well, on a scale where ‘well’ means we didn’t set something on fire. Thank goodness for takeaway.”

A few months. That would give him time to make inquiries with the appropriate people at the Marketplace. Not that he actually knew who they were, other than Parker. He knew that Q had contact with his trainers still, but he had no idea who they were. Perhaps he could check his phone logs. They didn’t receive many calls, and as long as Bond pulled up the accompanying recordings, it wouldn’t be hard to identify the right people to contact.

Danielle gave him a disappointed look. “I’ll buy you two a cookbook —”

“Ma’am?” a new voice interrupted.

Danielle looked up, and Bond twisted around, despite the aches it set off. TJ gave Bond a slightly desperate nod before turning his pleading look on Danielle.

“Oh, god. What’s gone wrong?” she asked, standing.

“Um. Not _wrong_ , exactly,” TJ said. He smiled nervously, and then said, all in a rush, “But we might be hacking NATO, so if you could keep us all from being arrested, that’d be lovely, ma’am.”

Danielle picked up her tea and rose. “Excuse me, James.”

Bond laughed. “I told you. Brilliant.”

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, 3 April 2012**

The knock on the door roused Bond, who lifted his head uncertainly, wondering why the hell he was sleeping on a sofa that was, at least at first, unfamiliar. He looked around at the bland furniture and recognised the Secret Intelligence Service crest on the wall. TSS conference room. Q.

A second knock, louder, this time, followed by Danielle Marsh calling, “James? James, if you shoot me, I’ll be very cross with you. I’m coming in, and heaven help you if you don’t have your trousers on.”

“I’m up,” he called gruffly, trying to sit up. That didn’t work so well, of course, as he’d neglected to take any of the meds before he fell asleep in the hope that Q might find him on a break, and he collapsed back on the couch with a groan. “Well, awake at least,” he amended, shifting his swollen joints very, very gingerly.

Danielle opened the door and looked in. “I’ve arranged a car to take the two of you home. It’s half ten in the morning. M wants you back first thing tomorrow for a briefing.”

“Of course she does,” Bond groaned. His second attempt at sitting up was much more successful, and he swiped the bag at his feet as he stood, knowing damn well that bending back down to retrieve it would end badly. “Thank you, Danielle. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said grimly. “We found the leak, but we’re far from out of the woods. This one won’t go away for some time, James. M’s calling 006 in, too.”

Both him and Alec on a NATO assignment? “Fuck,” he muttered as he made his way forward. He peered behind Danielle, making sure Q wasn’t lurking in earshot. “If I’m going to be sent out tomorrow, is there any chance you’ll... arrange the gift we were discussing earlier?”

She put her hand on his arm, looking up into his eyes. Then, to his surprise, she kissed his cheek. “I’ll take care of both of you, James. Go home. Put him to bed — he’s been up all night. I’ll have someone stop by this evening, so don’t worry about lighting any fires for dinner.”

Bond smiled at her gratefully, and considered giving her a hug before he decided it would probably end with her supporting his nearly useless body as he made his way down the hall. “You’re amazing. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She squeezed his arm and pointed him towards the collaboration room. Q was pacing behind an unfamiliar tech, giving instructions in a rush of words that only stopped long enough for Q to snatch up half a biscuit from a plate of crumbs in the middle of the conference table. He was the only one in the room still wearing his tie and jacket, and he radiated the frenetic energy of someone who was possibly minutes from a caffeine-and-sugar crash.

As soon as Bond pushed open the door, he looked over and stared blankly for a moment. Then, abandoning the biscuit on the plate, he walked over, saying, “You’re back. You were in the field. Did something go wrong?”

Bond grinned, more pleased than he had any right to be about the fact that Q would drop everything in the middle of a damn critical operation to see to him. “Got done early, thanks to chatty criminals during drawn-out and inefficient methods of torture. Care to get out of here?”

He was prepared for argument, but Q just frowned, looking him over worriedly. “Do you need to go to Medical?” He picked up his overcoat from a pile on a chair in the corner and took Bond’s bag.

With a sigh, Bond shook his head, wondering how many times various people would have to ask him that question in a twelve hour period for it to be a record. “I’ve been. Danielle called us a car. Meds are in the bag, but I haven’t taken anything yet.”

Q nodded, struggling to coordinate putting on the coat, carrying the bag, and walking. “You should have. You know —” He stopped, one sleeve on, bag hooked over his other arm, and looked across the expanse of cubicles to the window. “It’s morning?”

“Ten hundred local time,” Bond confirmed, wrapping his hand around Q’s wrist to get him moving again. He shuffled through the door, holding it open for Q with his foot. “You need sleep.”

“Ten hundred. Ten o’clock. God, I’m late for my shift, aren’t I?”

“Your duties have shifted away from mere database work,” Bond said, limping determinedly towards the lifts. “Congratulations, you passed your trial by fire with some NATO hacking and a thirteen-hour shift you managed beautifully. We’re both coming back tomorrow for follow-up assignments.”

“Oh.” Q looked back at the closed door to TSS. “Well, that’s good, then. Are you all right? What happened? Torture?”

“The rack, Q,” Bond said with a dark laugh. “An honest-to-god medieval rack. Thanks for the spring-loaded knife, by the way. The idiots used rope.”

“It helped?” Q asked, smiling so suddenly that it stole Bond’s breath. “It worked?”

Bond stopped pulling Q down the hall and, not giving a damn who saw, kissed Q quickly but deeply. “All limbs still attached, thanks to you,” he said warmly. “Let’s go home.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Friday, 27 April 2012**

The heat and humidity woke Bond early despite the powerful air conditioning that kept the room liveable. The Pan Pacific was just blocks from Manila Bay. Bond’s room was high enough that he could see the water, silver highlights playing on the waves beyond the shadows of the tall buildings clustered against the harbour.

He looked at his watch and converted the time mentally. It was eleven p.m. in London. Q was probably at home by now, asleep.

Bond sighed and considered going out onto the balcony for a cigarette, but just thinking of the sticky morning air changed his mind. Q had been officially brought into the Quartermaster programme two weeks ago. Since then, he’d been worked to exhaustion, all because of this blasted crisis at SHAPE. Every available field agent had been dispatched, from the senior operatives in the Double O programme to recruits so new that they squeaked if they turned too quickly. Bond had caught hints and rumours that brought him here to Manila, only to have the trail run dry.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Q — to talk about their future together. But this mission wasn’t just important. It was, judging by M’s hints, critical. Perhaps the most critical mission he’d ever had. He’d certainly never seen such an uproar at MI6 before.

He pushed the sheet aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He unplugged his personal mobile from the charger and saw a text sent an hour earlier: _Good night, James. Please be careful._ Q had sent some variant of that text every night before going to bed, whether they’d just hung up with one another or if they hadn’t spoken for days.

In some ways, Q’s being a part of the Quartermaster programme was even better than Bond had anticipated. Relying on secondary information always lent an element of unpredictability and the nagging fear that Bond could be walking into a trap. Q, having finally been given the permission and resources to do whatever was necessary to assist the agents, always tried to find verification of whatever intel he could before passing it on. And he was never false with his assurances; if he told Bond he was ninety per cent certain of something, Bond knew there was data behind the statistic.

And it wasn’t just Bond. Q, not yet actually running ops, was one of the intel analysts for everything that passed through to the agents. Q’s hard work and dedication to verification meant that his agents were experiencing an increase in their effectiveness.

Not that it was doing them much good.

Whoever they were chasing seemed to be just as clever. As fast as Q or any of the other analysts could dig up something useful, the target vanished again, leaving nothing more behind than taunts. Bond couldn’t help but feel like he and all the other agents on the NATO case were being run like rats through a maze, with some sick bastard looking down at them, laughing.

But Q was learning. He was getting closer.

The downside of Q’s relentless ambition to rise through the ranks to run ops was, of course, that their personal relationship was put on the back burner. Not that Bond had any room to complain or be resentful. He’d asked for this, insisted on it. He suspected that Q was getting closer to closing in on their target, and Bond knew that Q would bring him and the other field agents home long before anyone else could, even just working behind the scenes. And once this mission was over, and Q was elevated to one of the Quartermaster postings, things would calm a little.

Such knowledge, however, didn’t make sitting in a hotel with only a cigarette and a skyline to keep him company any less lonely.

 _Fucking hell_ , he wanted to go home.

On the bright side, it made it much easier to consider offering Q a lifetime contract. He didn’t think he could go back to a life of nothing but cigarettes and skylines and one-night stands. Knowing what he’d had, knowing what he’d lost, knowing that he’d never find a relationship like that ever again... Bond knew himself well enough to know depression, which for him expressed itself in terms of self-destructive behaviour, would win out sooner rather than later.

The problem, of course — the one thing that held him back — was that he had no idea if Q would accept it. Though they’d settled into an exceptionally beautiful balance of give and take, the fact was that lifetime commitments typically required some emotional involvement from both parties. And though Bond was certain that Q felt affection for him, he didn’t know if that affection was enough to balance out Bond’s lacking a typical Marketplace owner’s practices and beliefs.

With a sigh, Bond stretched to pull his laptop off the bedside table. One way or the other, Bond had to learn more about the concept. He needed to talk to someone in the Marketplace, preferably someone who knew Q.

Thus the call logs.

All calls to and from the flat’s landline were logged as a matter of security. The logs were technically private, available to the residents and, with either authorisation or an emergency order, MI6. Bond used his residential login to access the call records. Most were to local restaurants, MI6, or his own mobile. There were some incoming calls, also from his mobile — and one from the United States, 718 area code.

Brooklyn, according to Google.

Q had mentioned training in Brooklyn for a few weeks, near the end of his six months with Parker. And while Bond knew that he could talk to Parker, he was uncomfortable with the memory of Parker’s role in Q’s sale. Though he knew without a doubt that everything had been consensual, Bond still didn’t think he’d be capable of holding a civilised conversation with him.

But this other trainer in Brooklyn... Anderson. That was the name. Anderson had also been Parker’s trainer. Q had mentioned a lineage — close links from one trainer to the next. And New York was precisely twelve hours behind Manila.

Thinking it best to be prepared, Bond downloaded the call record to his laptop, wondering if Q knew that all landline calls were recorded. Bond felt a slight twinge of guilt at what a non-Marketplace lover would consider a serious invasion of privacy before he reminded himself that Q didn’t expect it. Still, Bond hadn’t given him anything but complete autonomy, and it took a few minutes before he finally pushed the guilt completely away in favour of the greater cause.

While the file downloaded, Bond went to brush his teeth and start a pot of tea. Outside, he heard the soft rattle of a chain leash as one of the hotel’s bomb sniffer-dogs was led past the room.

He returned to the desk and opened the file, slipping on earbuds out of habit.

The caller was female, and Bond tried to recall if Q had mentioned Anderson being a woman. His memories were admittedly clouded by the tension he’d still felt regarding the Marketplace — a desire to deny its whole existence. It wasn’t a threat to the UK, so Bond had felt safe in ignoring it, except as it directly related to Q.

Apparently, this was Anderson, though; Q addressed her as ‘Trainer’ in that respectful tone that had so endeared him to Boothroyd, Danielle, and his shift supervisors at MI6. ‘Very polite’, they’d said.

He listened as Q explained, without hesitation, how he perceived that he’d failed Bond for their first year and a half together — and he did so without once revealing Bond’s actual name or job, or anything at all that would imply he was anything but an international sales rep. It was a masterwork of truth and evasion.

But before he could process that, he heard a question that made him pause the recording and replay the last few seconds: _“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”_

_“I — I try my best to serve —”_

_“You can’t hide it from me, kiddo. It’s here in your notes. You talked about it with Parker a while back.”_

_“Yes, Trainer.”_

Bond hit the spacebar on his laptop hard enough to shake the desk.

For two years now, he’d struggled with trying to understand what, if any, emotional commitment Q had to him. In the setting of a Marketplace contract, love or hate had absolutely nothing on service. It had taken a while for Bond to understand, but eventually he’d come to realise that love and hate were inferior to the commitment that stood despite the emotion. Service wasn’t transient the way romance was, because the reward didn’t depend on the other person loving you back. The reward was internal, not external — satisfaction in the job well done and the resulting pleasure of the owner.

But as much as Bond wanted to believe that was enough, he was fully aware of the tiny part of his heart that still believed in things like love. He’d been ready to talk to Anderson, to ask about the contract, without having been convinced it could work unless Q could learn to love him back some day.

And now that he knew that Q actually _did_ love him, he felt a weight lift from his chest, and a grin split across his face.

Q loved him.

Finally, after taking a few extra moments to breathe and process, he continued the recording, with Anderson asking, _“So, what are you going to do about it?”_

_“Nothing, Trainer. I have three years left —”_

_“And your contract is now open for renewal. Has he brought it up?”_

_“No, Trainer.”_

_“Will he?”_

_“I couldn’t say. I’m sorry.”_

Grudgingly, Bond admitted that was fair. The first year and a half of their relationship had been a constant negotiation between them, each moving forward on faulty assumptions. Then they’d found their equilibrium, and even still Bond had worried he wasn’t good enough for Q to want him beyond the five-year contract. And then Alec...

To Bond, it felt perfect, for _all_ of them. But he had no trust in perfection, and he could admit to himself that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He hadn’t brought up the contract at all, because if Q declined a renewal, Bond didn’t know if he could make it through the next three years with that hanging over his head.

But now Bond didn’t have to worry about it. If Q loved him, if he was happy with the dynamic they’d established, Bond didn’t have to concern himself with fear of rejection.

From there, the call moved into the matter of Q’s required medical check-up — one of the safety nets the Marketplace used to protect its members. There was nothing else about the contract or Bond himself.

He went back through the call logs, but there was nothing — unfamiliar numbers in London that he presumed were for takeaway orders, various appointments, car services... Calls to and from Alec and Bond and Q... And then, at the end of July, two years ago, just three months after Bond had signed the contract with Q, there was a call to Japan, dialled late one night.

He downloaded that file and played it as soon as it would open.

Immediately, he recognised Parker’s voice. Parker’s first two questions were _‘Is something wrong?’_ and _‘Are you in danger?_ ’, and the protective tone in his voice surprised Bond, though he could admit that it was somewhat reassuring. Knowing that Q had someone looking out for him from the beginning soothed his concern that Q may have been mistreated by owners in the past.

Q’s answer was reassuring as well: _“No, quite the opposite.”_ And then... _“I think... I suspect that I’m developing feelings that may compromise my service to Richard.”_

 _“It’s perfectly natural,”_ Chris answered, _“especially at the beginning of a contract — on both sides.”_

_“I remember your warnings. After seven years of primarily professional contracts, though, I hadn’t... anticipated how difficult it would be.”_

_“Let me guess. He’s taking you out to dinner. You sleep in his bed. He does the dishes with you.”_

Q laughed. _“Yes. I was hoping you could help me find a way to explain it to him.”_

_“No.”_

_“I’m sorry for asking.”_

_“Don’t be. And I won’t help, because there’s nothing to help. This is the service he wants. Focus on being what he wants. If he wanted you to be a housepet, what would you do?”_

_“Obey,”_ Q said, after a moment’s hesitation. Bond recognised the distaste in his voice, hidden under that perfect neutrality.

_“And since he wants a boyfriend?”_

_“I’ll —”_ After a pause, Q continued, _“Please excuse me, Chris. Someone’s here.”_

 _“Go,”_ Chris answered, and the call log ended.

Q had known he had feelings for Bond so long ago? A small part of him growled at all the time they’d wasted not talking about it, though he knew that the slow negotiation of roles had been absolutely necessary to achieve their current balance.

Bond closed the laptop and stood, elated. He picked up the phone without any reticence, ready to permanently banish the concern that Q would someday leave him bereft and alone.

Not caring if he interrupted Anderson’s supper, he dialled the American number. It was answered after just one ring by a cheerful-sounding woman with a heavy Italian accent: “Anderson residence, how may I help you?”

“Trainer Anderson, please,” he demanded brusquely.

“Yes, sir. May I say who is calling?”

“Richard Sterling,” he replied. Given how recent her phone call to Q was, he hoped she would take the call without him having to announce himself as Q’s owner to someone who may or may not know about the Marketplace. He assumed the person on the other line was herself a slave, but in his experience, assumption in such situations very rarely paid off.

“Please wait a moment, if you would,” she said, followed by silence.

Less than a minute passed before a new voice came on the line — the soft female voice he’d heard on the recording, with an accent caught between Brooklyn and America’s deep south. “Hello? Mr Sterling?”

“Good afternoon, Ms Anderson. I apologize if I’m interrupting anything. Do you have a moment to speak with me regarding my contract with Q?”

“Absolutely. What can I do for you?”

“As you are probably aware, Q’s contract is up for renewal. I’d like to offer one to him, but another five-year contract is insufficient to meet my needs. I’ve read in other Marketplace materials about other types of contracts and would like your insight.”

He heard the sound of typing. “Were you looking for a shorter contract? What adjustments were you interested in making?”

“I would like to know more about a lifetime contract,” he answered without hesitation.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. Then she laughed. “No need to be shy about it,” she teased.

Pleased that Anderson hadn’t responded with simple dismissiveness, Bond chuckled in return. “I find that wasting time with indirectness is rarely profitable for anyone.”

“Very true,” she said approvingly. “So, lifetime. That’s a substantial jump after just two years, Mr Sterling. And for a new owner... Why not wait out the rest of the five-year contract? It also says here he’s open to a renewal for another five.”

For the first time in his experiences with the Marketplace, Bond wished that he could disclose his true career. He knew damn well it would ease any of Anderson’s concerns, were she to know the true service Q was providing him. She would know how truly invaluable Q had become to Bond without his having to explain too deeply.

“I dislike having an axe hanging over my head, and that is what this contract expiration date is. Three years from now, eight years from now, it doesn’t matter. I find the service he provides invaluable, and the thought of losing it unacceptable,” he finally said.

Anderson hummed thoughtfully. “Is it _just_ the service he provides?”

Bond sighed. “No. But emotions are transient and his service isn’t. My need for the latter predates the former.”

“All right. So you’ve been satisfied with his service to date? Any major problems?”

“No,” Bond said, wondering if she would be able to detect his smile in his voice. “We’ve had our moments, but all issues have been resolved to my satisfaction.”

“Well, that’s a comfort to hear,” she said, her southern accent coming out a bit more. “All right. If he refuses a lifetime contract, what’s your counter-offer?”

Bond sat back down on the bed, looking down at his free hand, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered this, not really. He’d assumed that Q would finish his last three years and leave. “There won’t be one,” he said. “He can finish his contract with me without fear of reprisal, but as I said, I don’t like having an axe over my head.”

“All or nothing. Got it,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s recorded acceptable modifications, should he be offered a lifetime contract. Have you reviewed them with him, or are you coming to me first?”

“I’ve come to you first.”

“Okay. You might want to take notes,” she advised. “First, the provisions of the standard contract remain in place. Medical insurance, room and board, all that. Those are listed as non-negotiable. Any objection?”

“None whatsoever,” Bond said as he opened his laptop again. Taking her warning seriously, he opened his word processing program and pre-emptively saved the doc as ‘Lifetime’ on his desktop.

“Good. If you’d said anything else, I wouldn’t present the offer to him,” she said seriously. “Other than that, he’s removed all provisions, except for his identity. Body markings, glasses, education, computer access, all of it. He’s — Oh. All right, _one_ modification to the standard contract. After STI testing, he’s willing to forego condoms with male partners, but not some birth control method with female partners.”

Bond was momentarily distracted from his surprise over computer access by the provision for female partners; he had assumed that Q was gay, not bisexual. But now the insistence on condoms, even with an owner who’d tested healthy, made sense. It was more than just fear of an STI; it was symbolic of a lifetime commitment. He typed it all out in his document, thinking that he’d have to talk with Q about what kind of markings he might like, before he realised that wasn’t what Q would want. Otherwise, Q would have specified that he was willing to negotiate.

Q didn’t want the choice. He wanted to give that choice to whoever earned a lifetime commitment from him. Bond’s hesitance melted away. He would take that freedom, though he didn’t yet know what he would choose. He’d have to give it a great deal of thought.

“Noted,” he said as soon as he finished typing.

“Okay. Otherwise, that’s it. That’s the minimum protection I’ll allow in a contract, Mr Sterling. You understand that, right?” she asked sternly. “Q may be your slave, but he’s still my client. We’ll always look out for him.”

Bond smiled. “I’d expect nothing less. I have no intention of altering our present arrangement, given how well it works for both of us. Though I must confess I do find the idea of a tattoo somewhat appealing,” he admitted with a chuckle.

“If he accepts, you can send him back for refresher training, and we can handle the tattoo for you,” she offered. “We’ll still act as his agents, if there are any difficulties down the road. He was a model client, though. I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“I don’t anticipate any problems, either, but the reassurance is appreciated.” He paused. “I wish to discuss this with Q before you speak with him. I have a holiday arranged.”

“Unusual, but all right, with one caveat: Don’t press him for an answer. If he does want to refuse or even ask for time to consider, he’ll have an easier time speaking with me about it. He’s not likely to say ‘no’ to his owner.”

“I understand,” Bond said, having already thoroughly considered this. “I have no intention of pressing him for an answer. I won’t ask him until the end of the holiday, and I expect that my return to work after a two week absence will mean my immediately being assigned international travel. He’ll have more than enough time to consider it without my presence interfering with his decision.”

“Good. Okay, Mr Sterling. Let’s talk about you. Have you ever been married or in... You’re British. A civil partnership, I suppose?”

“That’s correct, and I’ve been in neither. The demands of my career have made such relationships impossible,” Bond admitted.

“Okay. Because this isn’t like a marriage, Mr Sterling. These days, if you want to end a marriage, there’s practically a shop on every corner that’ll help. Every contract one of my clients enters is longer than the average marriage these days, for a reason. My clients are completely committed. If you have _any_ doubt that you’re going to want this in twenty years, then save us all the heartache. I’ll negotiate any contract length you want.”

 _I won’t be alive in twenty years_ , Bond thought. It wasn’t tainted with bitterness — only resigned acceptance. “I have no doubts,” he said with calm confidence.

“All right. Then let’s get down to the details. If you’re serious about this, then we need to do a little banking. I’ll email you the modified documents to review, but once you sign over the fees, the only way out is if he refuses the contract. Do you agree?”

“I’ve been saving in anticipation of a renewal,” Bond said, though _saving_ wasn’t exactly the appropriate word for it. His salary was generous, and when supplemented with funds ‘rescued’ from the burning ashes of the criminals and organizations Bond brought down, he had a good deal of cash set aside. “But let’s get specific, shall we?”

“Chris Parker is his last trainer-of-record. He got his standard thirty per cent, and his master’s house, another twenty to cover his training there. My fee for his four weeks here came out of his share. His spotter and previous trainer got a percentage, but that’s ended for the next contract. We treat a lifetime contract as an indefinite-duration renewal, but instead of charging fees based on that, we repeat the previous contract. You’re already looking at a lifetime of providing for him — there’s no need to bankrupt anyone. You should understand, this is very rare, but it’s what every trainer wants to see.”

“I understand,” Bond said. “So how does this work? I pay you the same price as I did for the previous contract _before_ I speak with Q, and if he refuses, it’s returned to me?”

“That’s right. But if he says yes, and you change your mind, it isn’t. So think carefully, Mr Sterling.”

“I do have one question, because my job can be very dangerous sometimes,” Bond started to ask. He didn’t trust the Marketplace enough not to assume the financials were in the favour of the ‘clients’ — even the fee structure Anderson had already described seemed too heavily in the institution’s favour. “In the event of my death, he still gets to keep everything, correct?”

“Even if you abrogated the next day, as long as he had accepted first, he would keep his share. He also hasn’t indicated that he wants to cede financial control of his Marketplace account in the event of a lifetime contract. If you’re worried about taking care of him if something happens, that’s commendable, but he’s barely touched his account. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

“Thank you,” he said with a relieved sigh. “That’s very reassuring. If you’ll email me the documents and the account number, I’ll have everything taken care of in short order.” _Before_ he went home. He didn’t want Q to get a whiff of what he was doing before Bond was ready to ask.

“I have an email address at Universal Exports. Is that still correct?”

Bond hesitated. “Q handles my email for me when I’m out of the country,” he finally said. “I’d prefer to provide an alternative. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Give me one minute...” She chuckled. “He was a damned big help around here, you know. If you’re not taking advantage of his computer skills, you don’t know what you’re missing. Okay, ready.”

Bond gave her the gmail address he occasionally used. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms Anderson. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or concerns.”

“You do the same, both of y’all. I’ll tell my staff to come find me, day or night. Like I said, this is what we all hope for, but it almost never happens. I wish you both the best of luck, Mr Sterling.”

“Thank you. Have a good evening.”

“Take care, Mr Sterling,” she answered, and rang off.

Bond looked down at the phone in his hand and laughed. He was stuck in a muggy, ridiculously hot city much too far from Q, chasing ghosts on a mission that felt like the kind that ended in too much death and destruction for there to ever be a real winning side. But he laughed anyway, feeling the heaviest weight from his shoulders start to lift.

God, he couldn’t wait to go on holiday.


	13. Chapter 13

**Wednesday, 25 July 2012**

When the door to Q’s small office banged open, Q nearly jumped out of his skin in shock. He ripped off his headphones and got to his feet so abruptly that his chair hit the back wall. “What —”

Alec walked in and slammed the door, a fierce, angry look in his green eyes. “Can you break into M’s comms?”

Heart pounding in surprise, Q sank back into his chair and swallowed nervously. “That wouldn’t —”

“If you say anything about laws or the rules...” Alec dropped his hands onto Q’s desk and leaned over the monitor. “James is in trouble.”

Q went cold inside. “What?”

“M’s comms,” was all Alec would say in response.

It was embarrassingly simple for Q to break into M’s computer and tap off her comms. Everything went through the computer systems, from the phones to the communications devices used to monitor agents in the field. Because of this, communications at MI6 were all secured internally. The advantage was that this gave MI6 complete control over its security. The disadvantage, though, was the beehive flaw: As soon as you were inside the hive, the other bees assumed you were authorised.

“... on the train,” an unfamiliar female voice said.

“Well, get after them, for god’s sake,” answered the much more distinct voice of MI6’s leader, M.

Alec made a questioning gesture. Q understood and answered, “They can’t hear us. What’s going on?”

“The agent James was working with — Ronson.” When Q nodded, Alec said bluntly, “He’s dead. He recovered the drive, but someone took it.”

Q’s stomach dropped all over again. The sole purpose of the infiltration at SHAPE months ago had been to identify records of allied intelligence agents who’d infiltrated terror and criminal cells throughout the world. Due to luck that was good for England but bad for Bond — or at least for Q — Bond had been the closest agent to Turkey, and had been dispatched to take over the operation from Ronson.

If Ronson was dead, it might be too late.

“Have we been compromised? Ronson was supposed to be at a safehouse,” Q said.

Alec grimaced. “I knew it. Bloody hell.”

It was another two minutes of tense silence before M said, “We’ve lost tracking. We’re blind here. What’s going on?”

“I’m still with them,” the unfamiliar woman said, her voice strained and tense.

“Who is that?” Q asked.

“Moneypenny. New field agent,” Alec said grimly.

“How new?”

Alec stared at him.

Q took a deep breath, thinking. If HQ had lost tracking, that meant Bond and this other field agent were leaving the city proper. That didn’t mean they were hidden from view, though, and he immediately threw caution to the wind and started searching for satellites that might show him what he needed.

A loud crash made him and Alec both flinch. “What was that?” M demanded.

“VW Beetles,” the other woman, Moneypenny, answered breathlessly. “I think.”

“What the hell?” Alec asked, scowling at Q’s computer. “Can you find out anything more?”

“I’m trying,” Q said, wishing he had full access to MI6 systems. He was wasting precious time falsifying his authorisation credentials. Security was all well and good, except when it came to this sort of situation.

He was still searching for an amenable satellite when Moneypenny said, “Bond. He’s uncoupling the cars.”

Long, tense seconds went by before there was another loud crash and the shriek of tearing metal. M asked, “007, are you all right?”

“Just changing carriages,” Bond said lightly, and Q let out a relieved sigh.

“What’s going on?” M pressed. “Report!”

Instead of waiting for Bond to answer, Moneypenny said, “It’s rather hard to explain, ma’am. 007’s still in pursuit.”

The background noises were distracting enough that Q almost considered filtering them. Then he heard a pained grunt, and he recognised it immediately as Bond. He looked up at Alec, who held up a hand and scowled at the computer, concentrating fiercely.

The rattle of metal and clatter of the train grew louder. More grunts — sounds of combat. Q typed frantically, searching, tempted to hack Major Boothroyd’s account and use _his_ access. But even that wouldn’t help much — not if M’s own team actually was blind. The greatest hacker in the world couldn’t see where there were no cameras.

A loud train whistle tore through the little office. Q flinched violently in surprise, exhaled sharply, and went back to searching, telling himself to ignore the way the grunts and breathing were turning ragged.

“Looks like there isn’t much more road,” Moneypenny said suddenly. “I don’t think I can go any further.”

More fighting. More time. There wasn’t a bloody satellite _anywhere_. Or if there was, it was hidden from Q.

“I may have a shot,” Moneypenny said.

“‘May’?” Alec demanded. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“An expression of uncertainty,” Q muttered.

“There’s nothing _uncertain_ about a bloody shot!”

“It’s not clean,” Moneypenny said.

Q frowned. “And what does _that_ mean?”

“Fuck,” was all Alec would say, his voice dropped to a tight whisper.

“Repeat, I do not have a clean shot.” And then, over the sound of a train whistle, Moneypenny said, “There’s a tunnel ahead. I’m gonna lose them.”

“Can you get into a better position?” M asked calmly.

“Negative. There’s no time,” Moneypenny answered, her voice breaking.

“Take the shot.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Alec repeated, head coming up to stare at Q. The colour drained from his face.

“Alec, what —”

“I said, take the shot,” M repeated.

“I can’t. I may hit Bond,” Moneypenny answered.

“Oh, shit,” Q whispered, hands freezing on his keyboard. “Alec —”

“Take the bloody shot!” M ordered.

A single gunshot, deafeningly loud.

A woman’s quiet gasp.

Seconds later, the loud splash of water. The crackle of static before silence.

And then, with two words, Q’s world ended: “Agent down.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Wednesday, 25 July 2012**

The hardest part was that Q couldn’t even hint that he knew.

He worked through the afternoon — at least, he assumed he did. He couldn’t remember a single thing he actually did. He told himself that field agents lost communication with HQ all the time. Sometimes it took a few days or even weeks. Q told himself not to worry. Bond _always_ found a way back home.

But the look on Alec’s face... He’d been _scared_. He’d seen the knowledge in Alec’s eyes, there for just a single heartbeat, before Alec had turned and disappeared. Alec had been in the field with Bond dozens of times. He _knew_.

 _Agent down_ , said the woman who had killed Bond.

Q _hated_ her. Beyond all reason, he wanted her dead — wanted her to suffer for killing Bond, and to hell with ‘I was only following orders’.

He had no idea how he got home, if he’d taken the Tube or a taxi. He ended up curled up in the centre of the bed that was supposed to be _theirs_ , still dressed for work, one hand wrapped around the identity tags on his collar.

 _Agent down_.

When the door crashed open, Q’s breath caught with impossible hope. He was out of bed so fast, he almost fell, tangled in the duvet. His dress shoes skidded on the hardwood floor. One hip hit the table in the hallway. He rushed for the foyer, thinking it was Bond. It was so like him to come home without ever reporting to MI6 — without ever letting anyone else know he was still alive.

But it wasn’t. Q stopped in the foyer and stared at Alec as he set down a black rucksack. Disappointment hit with crushing force, tearing through him like a gunshot.

He turned away, not caring why Alec was here, only to be stopped by a hand clenched around his arm with bruising force. “What are you doing?” Alec demanded, his accent heavy.

Q looked back, trying to pull away, though he had no hope of freeing himself. “What?”

“What are you doing?” he repeated more sharply, pulling Q back to him. He turned Q around so he could take hold of both shoulders, fingers pressing flesh against bone. “To find him — what are you doing?”

Q’s stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes, unable to look at Alec. Bond’s closest friend. “He’s —” But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t even _think_ it.

Then Q’s back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the light fixture, and Alec’s hands clenched on his shoulders, forcing him high up on his toes. His eyes flew open, staring into Alec’s face, only inches away. “He’s _not dead_ ,” Alec growled.

“What? Did he contact you?” Q demanded, torn between elation at the thought and pain, thinking that Bond hadn’t contacted _him_.

With another growl, Alec said, “If he had, I wouldn’t need _you_ to find him.”

The death of that brief flare of hope was every bit as painful as those two words — _agent down_. Q flinched, wanting nothing more than to curl up in their bed and not wake up.

“He’s _gone_ ,” Q said tightly.

Alec’s fingers pressed hard enough to leave bruises. “He’s _not_ dead,” he said, his voice shifted to a terrifyingly soft, reasonable tone, as if he were talking about the weather. “James isn’t dead.”

Q took a ragged breath, wanting to believe, though he knew better. Hope was meaningless in the face of logic. The woman who’d killed him had laid claim to her shot.

“James isn’t dead,” Alec repeated again, just as steadily, as if saying it could make the words true. “Until we see a body — until we see the bloody DNA verification — he isn’t dead.”

 _Oh, god,_ Q thought, sympathy creeping through the grief that filled him. Alec was Bond’s _closest friend_. Of course, grief had turned him irrational.

Wary of the potential for inciting Alec’s anger, Q said, “He was shot, Alec.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“The” — Q hesitated — “the one who shot him said —”

“She’s a fucking idiot.”

Q swallowed back his words. He nodded.

Alec set him down on the floor. His grip eased. Q’s shoulders tingled painfully as blood rushed into fresh bruises. “You’re going to help me find him.”

“Alec —”

For the first time in years, since the first day they’d met, Alec took hold of Q’s collar. He twisted his fingers in the chain and pulled tight, holding up the identity tags threaded through the lock.

“As long as you wear this, you belong to him. And that means _you help me fucking find him_ ,” Alec demanded. He took a breath, pulling the collar tighter around Q’s throat. “Understand?”

Q closed his eyes and nodded, barely able to breathe, much less speak.

Alec released the chain and took hold of Q’s jaw instead, tipping his face up. “Look at me, Q.”

Taking a shaky breath, Q opened his eyes.

“I’ve known James for more than twenty years,” Alec continued. “I know what can kill him, and it’s not some green bitch without even a proper sniper rifle. Unless we see a body, we assume he’s still alive, and we find him.”

Q opened his mouth to protest, but there was something in Alec’s expression — an impossible certainty, an unshakable belief that he was _right_. What came out instead was, “How do you know?”

“Because together, he and I have gone through hell and back. For twenty years, the whole bloody world has tried to kill us. I’ve seen everyone give up on the both of us, and we’ve _always_ proven them wrong. We _always_ come back. So we’re going to find him, and we’re going to help him come back.”

 _Hope_ , Q thought, terrified to give in to it, though he wanted to. God, did he want to. If he could _believe_ that Bond would come back, then he could do anything.

Including find Bond.

He nodded, letting out a shaky breath, and leaned his head against Alec’s chest. “All right,” he whispered. He swallowed, wondering how he could feel such grief and hope at the same time. “I’ll look.”

Alec’s arms circled him, pulling him close. “They gave up on him,” he said softly. “But we won’t.”

“No.” Q felt the grief start to fade, just at the edges, and held Alec close, taking comfort in the fact that he wasn’t alone. There was someone who cared about Bond just as much as he did. “We won’t.”

 

~~~

 

It helped, having something to do. Logistics was fussy, detailed work, especially with Alec seated beside him, occasionally leaning over to look at the computer screen. But it helped, having something to do and having someone beside him, someone who _knew_. Because every time Q lost the fragile thread of concentration, hearing those two words in his head — _agent down_ — Alec put a hand on his arm or the back of his neck and called him back out of despair.

Cover identity. Hotel. There were almost a dozen flights between London and Istanbul every day; a direct flight was just under four hours. Q booked Alec on the earliest possible flight for Thursday morning and then turned his attention to the equipment spread over the side of his desk.

“Satellite transceiver,” Alec said, touching a bulky black base station. “Set the frequency to match mine. Transmit/receive earpiece,” he said, moving a black box with a coiled white cable going up to an over-the-ear earpiece. “Concealable under your clothes. With your hair, it’d be practically invisible. Transmit’s either push-to-talk or voice-activated. Don’t set it on voice and then have a sneezing fit.” He handed over a tiny, pale-coloured earwig with a charging cable. “Earwig. Fourteen hours of battery time on transmit only, four hours on two-way.”

Q picked up the earwig and unscrewed it into the component pieces. They all stacked, one into the next. Speaker, circuit, bone-conduction mic, housing. “Do you want constant monitoring?”

“Not constant, but I’ll let you know when. Do you have a personal mobile?”

Q nodded and took it from his belt, where it was holstered beside his MI6 mobile. He unlocked it and offered it to Alec. “James has both numbers,” he said, unnecessary as it was.

Alec nodded, raising a brow when he found himself in Q’s address book. He added a few more numbers and email addresses. “Keep _this_ phone on you at all times. Don’t let it out of your sight. Don’t give it to anyone at MI6. They bug electronic devices for practice.”

“All right. Thank you.” Q put out a hand and said, “I can put my information in yours.”

Alec stopped typing long enough to hand over his mobile. “You need to go to work tomorrow. Can you do that?”

Q swallowed, thinking about staying at home, in the empty flat, or being at work. “I think so,” he said tentatively.

“You have to. You _need_ to act normal. As far as anyone’s concerned, you don’t know anything’s happened to James.”

“Alec — sir —”

“Listen to me,” Alec said, putting down Q’s phone. He turned Q’s chair to face him and leaned forward. “This all goes back to SHAPE. Someone _knew_ where to find the bloody intel, and that means MI6 is most likely compromised. James is alive out there, and if he’s in hiding, then we need to _not_ give our enemies any reason to go looking for him.”

Q closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And they’ll be watching me.”

“Exactly.”

The thought of having to go to work made Q feel ill, but he nodded. “I understand, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Alec let go of the chair and turned back to Q’s mobile. “Don’t trust anyone.” He glanced at Q. “Not even Danielle Marsh or Major Boothroyd.”

Q wanted to object — it was unthinkable that either one would betray MI6 or James — but he knew Alec had more experience with intrigue and espionage. “Yes, sir.”

Even unspoken as it was, Alec must have heard his misgivings. “If _they_ change their behaviour, it could endanger them, Q. You and I are the only ones who can know we’re looking for him — and that puts us at more risk than anyone else. We’re not just protecting James; we’re protecting everyone who’s innocent. That’s what we do.”

 

~~~

 

After making sure Q ate a dinner that left him feeling vaguely nauseated, necessary as food was, Alec left. Q closed up his office, cleaned up the dishes, and then stopped in the hallway, staring at the bedroom. The door was open, light still on.

He couldn’t bring himself to take another step. The thought of being alone in the bedroom — in their bed — made him flinch inside. He took a step back, resisting the urge to call Alec back, because Alec needed to rest. He needed to sleep tonight and prepare for tomorrow so he could go to Turkey and _find James_.

 _Z_ , Q thought, though he hesitated. Alec’s words about endangering others replayed in his mind, but even MI6 didn’t know about Z — not as Q’s fraternal twin sister, Elizabeth, nor as his brother. Z had buried his paper trail just as deeply as Q had.

He’d be safe, Q finally decided, and he went to the sanctuary of his office. He sat down at the desk and dialled Z’s mobile without looking at the keypad.

“What’s wrong?” Z asked at once. He knew; of course he knew. Q never called him in the evenings, because Q was always busy with Bond and Z usually had a date.

“I need you.”

“Need me there?” he asked unhesitatingly.

Q swallowed. “No.”

“Come over. I’ll have her kicked out by then. Take a cab. I’ve got cash.”

Z had always been Q’s final safety net. If the Marketplace’s screening policies failed, Z would always come find Q. “It’s — it’s all right. It’s not... I’m safe. I just... I need you.”

Gently, Z said, “Okay, brother. Come over. Front door’s open.”

Relieved, Q started for the door, only to turn back, thinking that he might not make it home. Z always said he had a guest room just waiting for Q. He’d never even considered taking advantage of it, until tonight.

He went into the bedroom long enough to get clothes: a suit, shirt, tie, socks, pants. He folded it all neatly into the overnight bag he kept packed with toiletries and necessities. One quick stop in his office to pick up his laptop and earpiece and to check the transceiver, and he was out the door.

He didn’t want to take the time to find a taxi, so he went to the nearest Tube station instead, glad he’d memorised routes. Otherwise, he would’ve been lost in the Underground for hours. As it was, he nearly missed his stop, and had to dart out as the doors were closing.

The rain had picked up, and he was soaked by the time he reached the door to Z’s elegant terraced house. The door opened before he’d made it up the white stone stairs, and Z reached out a hand to him, metal bracelets jangling around his wrist.

Q let Z take his bag. He entered the foyer and set down his laptop bag. Then, as he took off his coat, his composure finally broke.

Z dropped the bag and pulled Q into his arms, holding him unquestioningly. Later, Q would tell Z everything; they had no secrets. For now, though, just being with his brother was enough.


	15. Chapter 15

**Monday, 30 July 2012**

On Monday morning, Q was summoned to M’s office. M’s chief of staff, Tanner, regarded him with a terrible sympathy before sending him in to see M.

“Sit down,” she said, watching him with sharp eyes as she gestured to the seat across the desk.

 _Please, don’t_ , he thought, going tense at the thought of hearing her say the words he knew were coming. The flash of hope that Alec had given him days ago had already started to fade in the light of cold logic. Now, if M were to deliver those crushing words Q didn’t want to hear, the last vestige of that hope might vanish completely.

“As you may know, 007 was on a mission in Turkey. There was an incident, and he was killed. I’m sorry.”

Q closed his eyes, cringing inside, though he appreciated her professionalism. Everyone else at MI6 thought he and Bond were a couple; only M knew what was supposed to be the truth.

“I’m fully aware of why 007 brought you to work here,” she continued after giving him only a moment to digest her words. “I permitted it because you’re talented and useful. A few months ago, you expressed your interest in the Quartermaster programme. I permitted that as well, given that the other option is to have you act in that capacity on your own, without the training and resources to do the job properly. But now, I need to know if you intend to remain with us, or if you plan to return to the Marketplace.”

It came out so bluntly that Q relaxed. Without emotional expressions of sympathy, he could pretend that this was just business. And he didn’t even have to make an uncomfortable decision. He needed MI6 resources to help Alec find Bond.

“I’d like to stay, ma’am,” he said steadily, meeting her eyes.

“I can’t have any of my staff with divided loyalties,” she told him. “Your arrangement with 007 was tolerable only because _his_ loyalty was never in question. If you wish to stay, I expect you to not make other arrangements with the Marketplace.”

Q nearly agreed — the Marketplace didn’t matter anymore; only Bond did. But then, he realised he could use this to his advantage. He looked down, hoping to hide any subtle tells, and took a breath to calm himself. “Mr Bond made arrangements for this contingency, ma’am,” he said formally, hoping she’d attribute any oddities in his behaviour to the awkward admission — awkward to an outsider, at least.

“Arrangements? What arrangements?”

“In the event of his death, I’m listed as his heir, ma’am.”

Impatiently, she said, “That doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but he did that only to... avoid any odd paperwork. In the event of his death, my contract goes to Mr Trevelyan.”

“006?” she asked, startled.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She let out a huff. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she muttered. “You do realise you don’t _need_ to do any of that, don’t you? You have a perfectly good job here — a very promising career, despite your occasional inability to follow rules.”

Q lifted his eyes, hesitated a beat, and then met her eyes as though making a decision. “It’s what I want, ma’am. It won’t interfere with my duties here. I still want to join the Quartermaster programme.”

Her lips went tight and she studied Q intently. When he didn’t look away or back down, she slowly nodded, and he knew he’d chosen right. His lie about ‘belonging’ to Alec would give him an excuse to communicate closely with him in their shared effort to find Bond, and his decision to remain at work reinforced that his ties to Bond — and now to Alec — were professional, not emotional. She could respect that, even if she couldn’t understand it.

“All right. Better 006 than a stranger. But I wish...”

He waited, braced against the condemnation of his decision.

It didn’t come. Instead, she said, “I expect Major Boothroyd will confirm, but things slip his mind occasionally. You’re scheduled for two weeks’ holiday. If you need to extend it with compassionate leave, speak with Major Boothroyd or Ms Marsh. I’m afraid there won’t be a public funeral, though there will be a small memorial service held here, a few days from now.”

 _Leave?_ Q wondered. Was it a bookkeeping error, or had Bond arranged leave for him? His heart skipped as he wondered why. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, rather than contradicting her.

“You have my condolences,” she told him more quietly. “He was a good man.”

It would have been kinder to shoot him. It took all of his training to hide his reaction and not flinch. “He was, ma’am. Thank you,” he said steadily.

After meeting his eyes for another moment, she turned to her computer. “Back to work, then,” she said, waving him out of the office.

 

~~~

 

Q’s hopes for a productive day were dashed when a knock came on his office door only seconds after he’d logged into his system. The door opened without his invitation, and he rose as Danielle walked in.

The kindly look in her eyes was like a knife to his heart.

“I am so very, very sorry,” she said softly as she closed the door. She walked across the little office and took his hands, pulling him into a motherly embrace. “My poor dear.”

 _No, no, no, no,_ he thought, closing his eyes tightly. He tried to focus on the smell of her perfume and the steps he needed to take to begin to find Bond, but her gentle sympathy was too much for his fraying self-control. He bit his lip to keep silent and clung to her, holding his breath to hide the tell-tale hitches.

Danielle rubbed circles over his back and murmured quiet, comforting words, seemingly content to hold him as long as it took for him to regain his composure. He finally pulled away, and she graciously turned away to settle on the plastic guest chair, politely not noticing as he found a tissue to dry his eyes and blow his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s —”

“No. I’m —” She cut off with a sigh and turned to face him. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Please,” he said, though he faltered, looking down at his computer.

She nodded and reached across the desk to put her hand on his arm. “Of course, dear.” She hesitated and looked down, drawing her hand back. “Did... James speak to you? He’d asked me to make arrangements for him...”

For one mad instant, Q wondered if Bond had arranged for _Danielle_ to inherit the rights to his contract, but the very thought of Danielle with a slave was laughable.

His silence made her look up, and she gave him an encouraging little smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s... Well, it’s for a holiday trip. Rail to Greece, and ten days on Mykonos. He had to reschedule a few times... He arranged exceptions because your leave would have expired...”

 _A holiday?_ Q wondered, surprised. Bond didn’t take holidays, ever. “I... see,” he said, faltering.

“It was for both of you. It was meant to be a surprise,” she said, blinking rapidly. She lifted a finger to touch the corners of her eyes, turning away. “I’ll send you the documents for it. It... James would want you to go...” Her breath caught and she rose hastily; he stood an instant later, baffled and overwhelmed. “If you need... Excuse me,” she said, and hurried out before he could say another word.

A trip to Mykonos? As the door closed behind Danielle, Q sat down, heart pounding. Bond was clever, far more clever than most people would credit. Was this trip related to Alec’s insistence that Bond was still alive? Or had he planned the trip for other reasons? Mykonos was home to Ninon, the almost legendary trainer of pleasure slaves, but Q doubted that had anything to do with Bond’s reasons.

He still didn’t know what to think by the time an email arrived from Danielle. The tickets were for this Saturday, he noted with some surprise, along with a suite at the Mykonos Grand Resort. When Q did a quick search for specifics of the resort, his heart almost stopped. As soon as he saw the first photos, he knew the trip had nothing to do with business. The resort was a romantic paradise.

Bond didn’t want a slave. Bond wanted a boyfriend. A companion. He’d never demanded love, though, and he’d never expressed feelings for Q, beyond a caring, protective nature. But this... This was somewhere to go with not just a lover, but a partner.

Had James loved him?

 

~~~

 

Heat.

Pain.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It _hurt._

Bond opened his mouth and tried to drag in a deep breath. Something caught in his throat, and he choked. Coughed. Tried again.

He wanted to scream, but his inability to breathe made it impossible.

Hands.

Shouts. Not just his.

Pain.

Someone in his ear, whispering words Bond couldn’t understand. They weren’t comforting words, or explaining words. There was an undercurrent of madness and menace that Bond instinctively flinched from, and his body contracted in protest, causing new waves of pain to roll through him.

But all he could do was grit his teeth and try not to cry out. It wasn’t the first time someone had shoved knives into his chest and ribs.

Then some internal switch flipped, and the pain started to ease as Bond faded back towards unconsciousness.

“Welcome, Mr Bond,” the not-comforting voice said before Bond passed out, the words curling in his mind like a snake. “We’re going to have so much fun.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Monday, 6 August 2012**

Q made it two steps into the suite before he stopped, unable to force himself to go even a step farther. His chest went tight, so tight that he couldn’t even drag in a breath. The suite was an open floorplan of pristine white. Gauzy curtains billowed on the warm, sluggish breeze coming off the Aegean Sea. A crystal bowl of water and floating yellow flowers sat on a table beside a bottle of champagne on ice, with two glasses.

The porter slipped past him, carrying his suitcase and laptop bag. Q moved out of the foyer and sat down at the dining table. He couldn’t think — not now, confronted with Bond’s obvious intention to share a romantic holiday with him.

And he wasn’t here. That last, faint bit of hope — hope that Bond would walk into sight through an open door, healthy and whole, with that smile that lit up his eyes... When it didn’t happen, it was almost too much. He fumbled his personal mobile from his pocket and thought about dialling Bond, but he couldn’t bear hearing the voice mail message again. He couldn’t send another empty text, knowing it wouldn’t be answered.

He was tempted to call Z, but Z would just tell him to come home. But Q had to stay here. There might be some message here, some _hint_ that he was meant to decipher.

 _Alec_ , he thought, seizing onto the faint hope. No one knew Bond better than Alec. If there was some hidden message here, he would know.

So he sent a text to Alec’s personal number, fingers flying over the touchscreen.

Then, after he told the porter to take the champagne and put up the Do Not Disturb sign, he went into the bedroom to wait and hopefully sleep, without dreaming.

 

~~~

 

“ _Kalispera, kyrie_. Welcome to the Mykonos Grand Resort,” the woman behind the counter said, giving Alec a smile that was a touch too warm to be entirely professional. Alec knew he didn’t warrant it, in his current condition; at this hour, she was probably bored and looking for a diversion.

“ _Kalispera_. William Sterling, checking in,” Alec answered in fluent Greek, with a sheepish smile of his own. “I’m afraid there’s a mix-up, though. My secretary made the reservation under my brother’s name — Richard.”

She typed quickly and said, “Ah, yes. I see the room’s been checked in already?”

“Yes,” was all Alec said. Then, as if suddenly thinking of it, he took out his mobile and offered, “I can call my brother, though he’s in Hong Kong at the moment, for a conference. Do you know what time it is there by chance?”

He watched her eyes flick over his mobile and the bespoke cut of his admittedly wrinkled suit before landing on the subtly refined logo on his watch. Deciding it wouldn’t do to inconvenience a guest who could obviously afford to pay for whatever-the-hell Bond had arranged at the resort, she said, “There’s no need to disturb him, sir. Allow me to change the reservation.”

Five minutes later, he was in possession of a keycard to one of the most expensive suites in the hotel, in a private guest wing, with its own pool overlooking the water. The suite was silent and fragrant with the scent of flowers. He let himself in quietly, generously tipped the bellhop who carried his suitcase, and waved the man out.

Bond was no novice at romance and seduction. Hell, they’d taken a bloody class on it at MI6. This was _perfect_ , from the arrangement of floating yellow blossoms to the furnishings laid out for slow, sweet seduction.

No wonder why Q had sent his frantic text.

Worried now, Alec made his way into the suite and found Q curled in a ball in the middle of an immense bed. It took a moment for Alec to make out the faint signs of Q’s breathing, and he leaned against the doorjamb, shaky with relief from a fear he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge. He had to resist the urge to climb into bed with Q and hold him, because that wasn’t his place. Q wasn’t _his_ , no matter what they’d shared.

But he couldn’t leave and let Q wake alone. He wasn’t Bond — he wasn’t the one Q wanted — but at least he could be the one who was here.

 

~~~

 

Q awoke in the darkness, momentarily dizzy at the lack of movement, after spending so long on trains across Europe. He reached up to rub his eyes and realised he’d fallen asleep with his glasses on.

Alone.

The loss hit him like a knife in the gut. He closed his eyes, only to hear a _click_ before light glowed through his eyelids.

“You awake?” Alec asked, his voice gruff.

Q opened his eyes and tried not to squint as the light speared into his head. The heat had brought on a headache — the heat and the fact that he hadn’t eaten properly for more than a week, truth be told. “You came.” The words rasped like sandpaper, his throat was so dry. He sat up and pulled off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes.

“Chartered a flight as soon as I got your text. Good timing, too. I think I might have found something.”

Q felt the pendulum swing back to hope, but it was a distant thing, as if he’d gone numb to hope and its counterpart, disappointment. He just put his glasses back on and looked at Alec, tanned and fierce and grave, and asked, “What is it?”

“You’re in no shape to discuss anything. Go wash up. I’ll call for room service.”

Q let out a sigh at the feeling of relief that swept through him. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed _someone_ to help him. He murmured, “Yes, sir,” out of habit and went to the ensuite, where he steadfastly didn’t look at the Jacuzzi tub for two. Instead, he stripped and got in the shower, losing himself in the mindless drone of water falling around him like rain. He rested one hand against the shower wall for balance; with the other, he held the identity tags on his collar as if they were a talisman that could somehow help him find Bond.

He had no idea how long he stood there before the shower door opened. He turned, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, and then shut off the water. Gently, Alec took his arm and pulled him out of the shower, wrapping him in a thick robe. It was easy to stand there and let Alec ruffle a towel through his hair and to follow Alec through the bedroom to the dining table.

He ate, though he had no idea what was on his plate — only that every time he faltered, Alec stared at him until he picked up his fork and resumed. Once his plate was clear, Alec asked, “Better?”

Slowly, Q nodded, lifting his gaze to look across the table at Alec. He didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed at how close he’d been to falling apart. There was only so much he could endure alone, and there was no shame in asking for help. “Yes. Thank you, sir,” he said, his voice still rough.

“All right.” Alec got up and went to the desk where the porter had put Q’s laptop. There was an unfamiliar toughbook there — Alec’s, presumably. He sat down at the desk and opened the toughbook. “I’ve been sniffing around in Turkey. There are too many possible leads, though. I need your help to narrow it down.”

“Manila,” Q said at once. He carried one of the dining chairs to the desk and sat beside Alec, curling his legs up under himself. “James was working on the SHAPE incident. He had a lead that brought him to Manila. He was there for weeks, before going to Turkey.”

“I thought it didn’t pan out,” Alec said thoughtfully. He swiped his thumb over the print reader and then turned the toughbook to Q. “That’ll access almost every one of his files. Whatever I can’t legally access, hack.”

Q nodded, twisting around so he could start to search. The directory structure was momentarily unfamiliar, far more crowded than he was used to seeing, thanks to Alec’s higher security clearance. “Does anyone know?”

“No.” Alec looked at Q. “You might not want to mention seeing me at all.”

Q frowned at him. “You’ve gone rogue.”

“ _Technically_ no. I’m just neglecting to report in a timely fashion.”

Sighing, Q started opening file folders to familiarise himself with the contents. “That’s at odds with the cover story I set up, sir.”

“Cover story?”

“I had to reassure M that my loyalty to MI6 wouldn’t be compromised by my taking another owner. I told her James willed my contract to you.”

Alec said nothing for almost a full minute — long enough that Q looked over at him questioningly. “You — She knows you _still_ have a contract with him? I thought there was that whole... ‘rescue’ thing.”

“James had to explain, when he told her not to open an investigation about the Marketplace, sir. As I understand it, they had quite a long discussion when James proposed I come to work for Technical Services Section.”

“And now —” Alec leaned back, chair creaking softly. “Christ. All right. Could you have made this any more fucking awkward?”

“I had to say _something_ ,” Q snapped so abruptly that he surprised himself. Alec gave him a shocked look, but the emotional stress left Q unable to hold himself back. “You tell me James is alive, and you need my help to find him. M tells me he’s dead and gone, and then she questions my loyalty, because I might find someone else to serve. How else was I supposed to convince her to let me stay and have access to _classified government systems_ so I could help you? You were _gone_ , Alec. You told me James was alive, and then _you left me_. Did you expect me to do this all alone?”

Alec’s surprised look smoothed into something softer, and he leaned forward again, folding his hands thoughtfully on the desk. “Did you ever read James’ files? Not just the summaries in the electronic reports, but the _actual_ files?”

“No, sir.” Q shook his head, some of the anger and frustration ebbing. “He told me not to take unwise risks. It... didn’t seem necessary.”

“There are three reasons for James to disappear. The first is because he’s in trouble — not this kind of trouble, but the ‘I’m going to get court martialled if I come back now, when tempers are high’ kind of trouble. Like when he stole that F-16 from the Americans when we were training in Florida for the sole purpose of impressing a girl.” Alec looked down at his hands and grinned. “Four days, that time. Just enough for his allies on base to rally and use their influence to turn it into a ‘security exercise’.” He looked up at Q, smile fading quickly. “For those, he never calls me because what’s happening is obvious and he thinks he’s giving me plausible deniability.”

“He wouldn’t do that. Not this time,” Q said immediately, thinking of this romantic holiday and everything that had gone unsaid between them.

Alec nodded before continuing. “The second reason is because he’s had to go off-mission. Do you understand what that means?”

“He’s operating outside the original parameters of his mission. He’s found a new lead or needs to take action previously unsanctioned.” Q’s eyes narrowed. “Or because he thinks someone at MI6 might present a threat or danger to the mission.”

“Yes, exactly. And he never, ever fails to call me in that case. Either to help him wherever he physically is, or to help him discover the fuck-up inside headquarters. Even when he stays gone afterward to recover, or escape, or do whatever he needs to do to survive, he’s never failed to inform me. Well, when he was in Venice with that bitch, but those circumstances don’t apply here.” He gave Q a meaningful look. “We would know if it were off-mission.”

“That leaves an external threat,” Q said, with a sinking feeling. Much as he hoped Bond had been staying away by choice — perhaps resentment at M’s order for the inept field agent to shoot him — he’d known that Bond wouldn’t do that. Not now. Not with Q waiting for him and this holiday scheduled.

“Yes,” Alec said, leaning back again and closing his eyes. “He’s in a place where he can’t make contact with us, and it’s not because he’s injured on the bank of a river. All weekend MI6 searched that waterway and the surrounding areas looking for him. If he were dead, they would have found him. If he were injured, they would have found him. But they didn’t even find a shoe. The only people that knew where he landed were MI6 and the bastard on the train. Whether it’s the boss or the leak, someone had him recovered. We just have to find out who.”

Q nodded, looking at the toughbook without seeing it. He felt as if his mind, which had been skidding and grinding without getting anywhere, was finally finding traction once more. “Who was on the train? The man who killed Agent Ronson? Who is he working for?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting closer,” Alec said, opening his eyes again. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to be at your best. James needs you to be at your best. Are you up for it?”

“M — over the comms, they were saying they were losing James and the other one. The woman. That meant they _had_ surveillance. If we backtrace from Ronson’s death... Search surveillance outside the safehouse. I can find you people to interrogate, if necessary. People who might have seen someone go into the safehouse.”

Alec took a deep breath and grinned. “That’s our Q,” he said fondly. He stood, patting his pockets for his mobile.

Irrational fear shot through Q. He shoved the toughbook aside and grabbed for Alec’s arm. “Don’t go. Please, sir.”

Alec’s eyes widened as he looked down at Q. He didn’t try to shake free, but instead wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders. “All right,” he said gently. “I need to make some arrangements, and talk to some people. It’s probably best that you don’t hear. Plausible deniability again. But I’ll just step out on the patio. Not far at all.” He released Q’s shoulder to cup his chin and tip it up. “I won’t leave yet,” he promised firmly.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Q closed his eyes, forcing himself to let go of Alec’s arm. “If you need to go, I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”

Though Alec let go of his chin and nodded with a small smile, Q was under no illusion that he’d fooled the agent with his bad attempt at a lie.

“Now that you mention it, I’m not at my best either. Why don’t you go lie down while I make my phone calls?” he suggested. Then, with another searching gaze, he shook his head. “Actually, no. I want you in his email accounts, just in case there is anything useful. You should be done about the same time I am. Then we can rest together for a while. All right?”

Gratefully, Q nodded. It was childish, but he needed to know that he wasn’t alone, even for just a few hours. “Thank you, sir,” he said, turning his attention to the toughbook. With Alec’s access, it would be easy for him to get into Bond’s email.

“One last thing, Q,” Alec said as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Bond has been declared dead four times in his career; well, five now. He’s been momentarily, clinically dead at least twice more that I know of. He’s a tough, lucky bastard. But if you think about it statistically, that means that, based on previous data, there isn’t a chance in hell that amateur managed to take him out.” He looked up from his phone to smile. “He’s all about the dramatic resurrections, isn’t he?”

Q meant to say, _“I hope so.”_

What came out, though, was, “I love him.”

Alec’s smile locked in place, and he shifted uncomfortably where he was standing. He reached out with his free hand to pat Q’s shoulder and cleared his throat. “I know. That’s good.”

Q sighed, feeling as if a weight had been lifted just by speaking the words. “Go make your calls. Let me see if I can get into his email,” he said, sparing Alec the embarrassment of dealing with Q’s confession.

Much to his surprise, though, Alec leaned over to place a light kiss on Q’s hair. “We’ll find him,” he promised, with all the same grim determination he’d used when promising to help Bond with tough missions. Then he kicked off his shoes and walked out to the patio.

Breathing easier, Q nodded and got down to searching out a way to trick MI6’s computers into giving him access to all of Bond’s files.

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, 7 August 2012**

“You’re certain you don’t want to stay?” Alec asked softly as he and Q carried their bags to the lobby.

“I can’t.” Q shook his head. He wanted to go back to England, back to MI6. He couldn’t sit in that gorgeous room for one more minute — especially not alone. “You don’t mind if I stay with you?”

“I’m never there as it is. Try not to light anything important on fire, and you can do as you like,” Alec said with a shrug. He set his bag down by a cream-coloured sofa. “Watch this for me. I’ll check out.”

“Thank you.” Q put down his bags and sat tiredly, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck to surreptitiously feel the chain Bond had given him so long ago. He was tired, yes, but he felt better. He was _doing_ something. Now, he just had to survive the flight back to London — he was determined not to waste two days on the train — and he’d be able to get back to work.

Thank god for Alec. He’d spent the night with Q, and the weight of a body beside him, strong arms around him — even clothed — had helped Q sleep for nine straight hours. And he’d agreed that Q could stay with him, which would help reinforce the story Q had told M, and would mean Q wouldn’t have to haunt the flat he’d shared with Bond.

Q looked over at Alec, who took something from the desk clerk — a small package, not even the size of a paperback book. Odd. Q hadn’t heard Alec order anything, though he had spent some time out on the patio last night and this morning.

Deciding it wasn’t his concern, he pushed aside his curiosity, and instead went back to reviewing his mental list of what needed to be done. He’d continue searching for surveillance local to the MI6 safehouse; with Alec’s assistance, once he was back in Turkey, Q anticipated no issues in eventually reconstructing enough of the day in question to be able to find a photographic identity of the assassin. Then it was a matter of running facial recognition through various databases, locating the assassin, and sending Alec to interrogate him.

Alec returned and picked up his bag. He’d made it clear when they’d left the room that he didn’t expect Q to carry his luggage. “All set.”

Q nodded and followed Alec out to where a car was already waiting for them. “Thank you for coming here. And for coming back to London with me.”

Alec put an arm around Q’s shoulders. “James would kill me if I put you on a plane by yourself. I saw how you were on the flight from Alaska, remember?”

Embarrassed, Q nodded and let the porters take his suitcase, though he held onto his laptop bag; Alec did the same. “All the same, I appreciate it. You’re very tolerant.”

“Christ, don’t let anyone at the office hear you say that. I’ve worked hard for my reputation.”

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Q laughed. It was surprised and brief, but it was real, and he felt another piece of the crushing grief break away.

Alec met his eyes and grinned, ruffling a hand through his hair; it seemed he was developing a habit. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see,” he said, and got into the car.

 _I hope so_ , Q thought, and followed.

 

~~~

 

By now, Bond was able to start forming a timeline of events.

Not that ‘events’ was the right word for it. It was really a continuity of endless pain.

 _Take the bloody shot_.

The memory was there, but it was fuzzy from shock and his captors’ best efforts to drive him out of his mind.

He’d been shot off a bridge.

Water.

Cold.

Pain.

Then there were days of pain, choking, heat.

Medical procedures to keep him alive.

Fever. Infection. Delirium.

Then, just as he’d started to get better, as the pain started to become manageable, as the fever and infection receded, there was more.

It wasn’t the same overwhelming hurt that the bullet had caused him. It was intense, personal, and focused. And it was always accompanied by the voice of cheerful menace he couldn’t escape no matter how hard he pulled at his restraints.

As his injuries healed, Bond should finally have been able to think more clearly, act in his own defence, and respond to the voice.

But the clarity didn’t come.

Drugs, Bond finally realised. He was being kept docile for the torture.

In rare moments of clarity, Bond found himself trying to ascertain what the hell his captors wanted from him.

His life-threatening injuries were being allowed to heal even as he was being given newer, more shallow wounds. It left Bond to wonder what would happen when he’d finally healed enough to be useful.


	17. Chapter 17

**Saturday, 8 September, 2012**

“James is better with a handgun, I’ll admit,” Alec said as he pulled another piece off the sniper rifle, “but I’ve always been a better shot at long distances. Every couple of years he gets a bug up his arse to challenge me.”

It took effort for Q to remind himself to pay attention to the guns he’d fired earlier that morning at the MI6 range. Watching Alec disassemble the sniper rifle reminded him of Bond. Different hands, different arms, but the same care and strength and grace.

Six weeks had passed since Eve Moneypenny had shot Bond. Six weeks of having lunch with Z every few days and long hours at the office to scour comms traffic for any hint of Bond. Six weeks of trying to act strong for Alec’s sake, knowing Alec was doing the same for him, because they both refused to give up.

They were at Bond’s flat — Q’s flat now — only because Alec’s wasn’t fit for one person to live in, much less two. Over the past few weeks, Alec had slowly moved in, and Q had taken to tending to his laundry and meals. They shared a bed, but they slept clothed and didn’t touch. Not intentionally. More than once, Q had awakened in the middle of the night to find he’d crossed the bed to seek comfort in Alec’s arms. Alec had never pushed him away, but he’d also never tried for anything more — a fact that was slowly wearing away at Q’s self-control.

“I’ll make you the same offer I did for him, sir,” Q said as he finally got the slide off. Three weeks ago, when Alec had finally come back from Turkey, he’d taken Q to the range and observed his marksmanship with the revolver Bond had acquired for him. Alec had taken it upon himself to broaden Q’s knowledge of firearms. It didn’t escape Q that every weapon he’d fired since had lacked serial numbers or other identifying marks.

“Because you’re not bloody tempting enough just sitting there?” Alec asked, glancing sidelong at him.

Q laughed, feeling a little shiver of interest that he was having more and more trouble ignoring as time passed. “I can find you sparring partners outside MI6, sir. No one at MI6 is a challenge for you. You need to branch out.”

“We’re not —”

“I know, you’re not allowed. But there are trainers in the Marketplace who specialise in bodyguards. And they have trainers — instructors in martial arts, all different fighting styles. It’s an international organisation, remember.”

Instead of objecting, Alec nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention back to the rifle. “One day, when we’re not busy, remind me to ask you about that.”

“About... the Marketplace?” Q asked, surprised.

“Why not?” Alec shot Q an uncertain look. “It’s all consensual. Voluntary. Right?”

“Entirely,” Q answered, not interested in going through _that_ round of tedious conversations with  a battle-scarred MI6 agent again.

“And I’m even more rubbish at emotional...” Alec waved a metal part of the rifle. “So why not? Sounds perfect for me.”

“Because owners —” was as far as Q got, before he thought about that night with Alec. And, yes, Bond, who _hadn’t_ objected. He’d even held Q helpless for Alec to do as he pleased. Q thought about holding Bond’s hands, resting against his strong body, knowing that even if he struggled he wouldn’t escape, but that Bond wouldn’t let Alec go too far — had even given Q the unnecessary courtesy, so important to Bond, of a safe-signal. And when Alec had fucked him, Bond had, too. There was no clearer sign of acceptance, even approval, than that. He’d let Q help Alec because they were practically brothers, but he’d participated because he _wanted_ to.

And Q had, too. At first, Alec had been nothing more than Bond’s closest friend. But as Q got to know him, he realised how much he _liked_ Alec. He and Bond were so similar, right down to their unshakable loyalty to one another.

Q closed his eyes and shifted, trying to get comfortable on the sofa. He and Alec had reached a fragile balance over the last few weeks, allowing them to cling to both their sanity and hope that Bond was alive. Without Alec, Q knew that he would’ve worked himself into hospital by now. As it was, Alec had taken to bullying Q to go to bed — to _sleep_ — for at least six hours every night. When he was in the field on double-duty missions for MI6 and their own personal quest to find Bond, he’d picked up Bond’s habit of texting or calling the landline to make certain Q was resting and eating properly. It was a strange reversal — Q was supposed to be the one taking care of his owner, but he and Alec weren’t _precisely_ there. It was more a... mutual caretaking, because they were both focused on finding Bond and bringing him home.

“Q?”

The hand on his shoulder made him shiver. Bond had been declared dead six weeks ago, but he’d been gone from England since early April. And Q was suddenly very, very conscious of what he’d been trying to put out of his mind: the fact that he was living with the one man who Bond had ever allowed to touch him.

“Sorry, sir.” Q went back to disassembling the guns, trying to concentrate on what he’d learned about the parts and pins and springs. “You were saying? The Marketplace?”

“Actually, _you_ were saying something about owners.”

 _You’d make a bloody fantastic owner_ , Q thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. He took a deep breath laced with chemicals and asked, “Do you have experience? BDSM clubs, play parties...”

“Yes.” Alec shot him another look, this one wary. “Some.”

God, it was so easy to picture Alec at a club. That edge of darkness would put some people off and draw others. Like Q, back in those days. He would have done _anything_ to attract Alec’s attention.

Feeling Alec watching him, he took a breath and said, “I thought so.” Distracted by the images in his head, he set down the last easily removed piece of the gun. He looked at the array of bottles and aerosols, trying to remember where to start; he was having trouble focusing. Two years with Bond and six weeks apart, and all Q’s training had gone out the window. He picked up one of the bottles and screwed off the cap without paying attention. He turned it over, thinking there would be a secondary dispensing cap underneath, only to spill the contents all over himself in a rush of eye-watering chemicals.

“Careful!” Alec scolded as Q bit back the urge to swear. Gently, Alec took the now-half-full bottle from him and said, “Go shower. I’ll clean up.”

“I can clean it, sir,” Q protested mindlessly, horrified at what he’d done. Was he _that_ distracted?

“Shower,” Alec said, putting the bottle on the coffee table. He stared at Q, and as soon as Q met his eyes, he added, “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Q said, obediently abandoning the mess to leave the room with what little grace remained. Instead of going right to the shower, though, he went to the washing machine in the kitchen. He stripped off his chemical-soaked jeans and T-shirt. His pants were soaked through at the hem, so he threw them in as well, along with his socks for good measure. He turned the water to hot, added soap, and started the wash, thinking he’d run the cycle several times to ensure the chemicals were rinsed. Absently reviewing the properties of the solvent in his mind, he walked back into the hallway, to the master bedroom, and into the ensuite.

He couldn’t get into the shower without feeling the loss of Bond all over again. He’d never known anyone to love showering and bathing together so much. Sometimes, usually after a mission, Bond would stand there and allow Q to wash him, letting Q’s touch draw him back from the field, back to a place where he was safe and cared for. Other times, Bond would fight Q for the soap — expecting Q to fight back, of course — and the shower would be filled with lather and splashing and the slick slide of bodies, and sometimes they didn’t even make it to the bed. Q still had condoms tucked into a decorative basket just outside the shower door.

God, he wanted Bond here with him now. It was more than just the ache of loneliness and grief — an ache that Q guiltily acknowledged was diminishing as the hope inside himself died.

Six weeks ago, Bond might have died. Six weeks was such a short time, but also an eternity.

Q smoothed the soap down his body and bent to wash his legs, and then up between them. And slowly, he allowed himself to remember the feel of other hands, strong and callused. He remembered how Bond would press high up inside Q’s thighs to part his legs. How he’d crowd behind Q and run both hands down on either side of Q's cock, cupping Q's balls with both hands. How he’d tease his fingers behind them. He’d bite Q on the shoulder, just below the shower-warm collar, as one fingertip pressed at his entrance.

Breathless with the memory, Q leaned against the shower wall, eyes closed in surrender to his own imagination. Bond’s chest would be scorching from the heat of the shower, leaving Q’s chest cold from the spray bouncing off the walls. When Q’s nipples would go tight and hard, Bond could never resist touching. Pinching. Twisting. Bright sparks of pain shot through Q, though it wasn’t enough. It never was enough, when it was his own hands, and he let one hand slide up over his sternum to his throat, where his fingers closed around the identity tags.

His other hand dipped low, taking rough hold of his cock. He was hard, aching, because he hadn’t done this for months. Bond had never ordered him to abstinence when they were apart, but Q enjoyed giving him that. He wanted Bond to come home to that edge of desperation driving Q’s desire.

Now, though, Q threw himself into his memory, allowing his rich imagination to fill his senses with the ghost of Bond — his touch and smell and voice. He sighed and let his head fall back into the warm water running over his back before he turned, wanting to feel the warmth on his cock, to imagine it was Bond’s hand or mouth.

A shadow caught his eye. He looked out the glass door, through the droplets of water, to the ensuite doorway. He’d left the door open — he always did, out of habit — and guilt crashed through him as he realised Alec stood there.

Watching him.

 

~~~

 

 _Don’t stop_ , Alec thought, though he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t find his voice. Because for a few timeless, incredible moments, Q had surrendered to the pleasure he’d built in his own mind, with his own hands. No cuffs, no knife, no hands holding him down, though there was still a profound sense of submission that clung to him, calling to Alec.

Without thinking, Alec lifted a hand, palm facing the floor, and then motioned down.

Q’s eyes, dark and hazy with lust, went wide. Slowly, without releasing the hand that held his collar, he sank to his knees.

The desire hit hard, nearly driving Alec to take a step. But one step would lead to another and another, and he _wanted_ , but Q wasn’t his to take. His other hand gripped the doorjamb until his knuckles ached with the force of it. He stared at Q, taking refuge in Q’s eyes for a moment. He couldn’t look at Q’s parted lips, the line of his body, the cock that had been in his hand just a moment earlier, and not do something that Bond would never forgive.

Because he knew — he _knew_ exactly how to seduce Q. How to approach and touch and command, to ignite fires under Q’s skin and make him breathless with need. He knew how to make Q crawl and beg and plead for more, and he knew — he _knew_ that Bond would never forgive him if he did.

 _Never without a good reason_ , Bond had said. _Never without me_.

And that memory nearly drove Alec away, but he couldn’t abandon Q. He couldn’t leave him desperate and needing release, but racked with the guilt that Alec read in his face. Bond was gone, and Q was in love with him, but Q was only human. Q needed touch and affection and, yes, even the relief of his own hand.

Abstinence was the only penance Q could give, but he’d done nothing wrong. Bond was gone, and while they _would_ find him and bring him home, they both had to live, too. They both had to eat and sleep and, yes, find what pleasure they could, because they were only fucking human.

Alec took a breath, ragged with a dizzying mix of grief and lust and anger that this was happening to Q, who’d done nothing wrong, except to fall in love with someone who didn’t lead a safe, normal life.

“Start again,” he managed to say.

Q tensed as though surprised, as though he’d been expecting a reprimand. He still didn’t let go of the collar; with his other hand, he touched the glass shower wall, staring out at Alec.

Very clearly, he repeated, “Start again, Q.” This time, it was a command.

Q shivered and closed his eyes. Alec nearly told him to open them — that he wanted to see — but he knew Q needed someone else here, even if it was just in his mind. The loss hit Alec again, and he clenched his hands into a fist, nails scraping against the door moulding.

Then Q moved, touching his thigh as he bowed his head. He didn’t hunch over and hide himself; he knelt beautifully straight, legs spread. And his long, graceful fingers touched, coaxing his cock back to hardness, making Alec ache to feel that touch himself. He wanted Q’s hands on him or Bond by his side so they could both watch.

Q’s chest rose and fell faster, breath fogging the glass until he let his head fall back. He moved, not just his hand and arm but his whole body, hips rocking back and forth as his thighs went tight. He opened his mouth and then closed it abruptly on a moan as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth. His hand swept faster over his length, fingers covering and drawing back from the glans as he thrust up against his palm.

He wanted to tell Q to let go of the collar — to _order_ him to lick his fingers, to take them into his mouth, and then to kneel up and reach down and open himself. God, he could imagine it, Q’s hips snapping back and forth, pressing down onto his own fingers and forward into his hand, moving faster or slower as Alec commanded.

Pleasure flared through him, and he pulled his hand back from his own cock, where he’d been pressing through the damned blue jeans that had gone suffocatingly tight. This wasn’t about him — this was about Q, about helping him cope with Bond’s absence — and he’d be damned if he let his own needs distract him.

That thought gave him the strength to demand, “Come, Q. Now.”

Even over the shower, he heard Q let out a quiet sound as his body went tense. A few more thrusts, and then he threw his head back, hand twisting in his collar as he came against the glass.

Alec bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, and he didn’t breathe again until Q knelt back on his heels. Tentatively, Q’s hand moved to rest on his thigh as he lifted his head and looked at Alec across the steam-filled length of the bathroom.

He watched the first sign of uncertainty — guilt — flicker in Q’s expression, and that got him moving. He crossed the bathroom and opened the shower door. Quickly, Q bowed his head again, clutching his collar even more tightly now.

Alec resisted the urge to step in with him. Instead, he reached down and touched Q’s wet hair. “Very good, Q,” he said roughly. “You did very well.”

Q let out a shaky breath and leaned against Alec’s hand. “Sir —”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, because whatever it was — guilt or an apology or, god help him, an offer — Alec couldn’t allow himself to hear it. He was strong, but not that strong. Instead, he combed his fingers through Q’s wet hair, closing his eyes, because he couldn’t even look at Q without wanting more.

Hot water sprayed over them both, soaking through Alec’s sleeve, but he didn’t draw back. He felt Q relax, and he heard Q’s breathing slow. Under his touch, Q bowed his head more and went still.

Alec curled his fingers, giving Q’s hair a sharp tug, though he didn’t tip Q’s head back. He didn’t even look down, because he couldn’t meet Q’s eyes. He just said, “Finish showering and clean up. Then come back out, and help me finish cleaning the guns.”

“Yes, sir,” Q said softly.

Alec forced himself to let go and walk out of the bathroom. He went into the kitchen and got the vodka out of the freezer. He poured himself a glass and drank it quickly, letting the cold hit him hard and fast. He wanted, but he wouldn’t take. He _wouldn’t_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Saturday, 8 September, 2012**

As soon as Alec’s mobile rang, he put down the rifle and held up a hand to Q for silence. He gave the ringing mobile one glance before he rose and carried it out to the balcony, where there was less chance of the building’s security systems interfering with the call. London was enjoying almost a week straight of rain-free days.

The sharp sound of clicking fingers cut into Q’s thoughts. He looked over and saw Alec beckoning at him, a new light in his eyes. Q abandoned the pieces of the gun and rushed over, dropping to his knees by instinct. “It’s going to his personal email?” Alec asked in a falsely casual voice, staring down at Q. With a cheerful laugh, Alec added, “Yeah, he’s rubbish at checking it. His gmail, right?”

 _His gmail?_ Q’s heart leaped as he remembered Bond had a gmail address he used, though it was only for signing up for newsletters and making online purchases. He never used it for anything important, though; it was too potentially insecure.

“Right, gmail it is,” Alec said, and made a shooing motion at Q before he pointed in the direction of the office.

Q rose, turned, and rushed for the office. Was Bond emailing himself, perhaps in hopes that Q or Alec would intercept it? Was it — _please, god, no_ — a ransom demand or a threat?

He skidded into the office and all but threw himself into the desk chair. A shake of the mouse woke his laptop, and he opened a fresh browser, logged out of his own gmail account, and then started thinking about Bond’s passwords. Bond was significantly better than the average person at choosing difficult passwords, but like most people, he refused to use anything truly random, especially for something as inconsequential as a personal email address.

It didn’t even take five minutes before Q was in, staring at over three _hundred_ unread emails.

The sight drove home the fact that Bond was _gone_. He wasn’t even hiding somewhere, checking his email occasionally. Q closed his eyes, fighting off the surge of returning grief.

“Are you in?” Alec demanded as he walked into the office, no longer on the phone.

Q turned the laptop. “Yes, sir.”

Alec leaned over the far side of the desk, tapped the touchpad a few times, and then grinned. “Right. I’m off,” he said, spinning the laptop back to face Q. “Get me a ticket to Barcelona. Book it through TSS. Bill it to the SHAPE mission.”

Q shoved his laptop aside and went to unlock the secure laptop from the safe. “Yes, sir. Are you going by MI6 for a kit?”

“No time. I’ll buy a gun there. This could be it, Q.”

Q looked back, meeting Alec’s eyes. “Bring him home, sir. Please,” he said softly.

Alec nodded, turned, and left.

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, 25 September, 2012**

The email, as it turned out, had been from one of Bond’s mercenary contacts, selling information on a year-old hiring call that had spread through the underground military community. The connection to the SHAPE infiltration was tenuous but solid enough that no one objected to Alec going off on his own. Q was assigned to his support team, working directly with the team lead — a final apprenticeship, as it were, before he was to be granted his own team. It was the last promotion Bond had wanted for him, and irritated as he was that it would increase his workload, he was proud that Bond would come back to find Q had done _something_ right, despite how long it was taking to find him.

From Barcelona, Alec went to Algiers, and then across North Africa to Tripoli — not the safest place for anyone to be. Q worked the mission every day for two straight weeks, until Danielle finally sent him home with orders to take forty-eight hours’ rest, or she’d have Medical sedate him.

He made it home only through the grace of an MI6 driver from Security and the helpful guidance of one of the doormen who pointed out that Q was swiping his keycard backwards at the lift control. Once inside the flat, he armed the security system, took off his shoes, and went to the sofa, which was much, much closer than the bedroom.

He slept for almost ten hours straight.

Two calls brought him a delivered meal and the grating knowledge that Danielle’s ban applied to phone communications as well. He phoned Z, only to find that he was in a meeting with prospective clients. Z offered to walk out, but Q insisted that he tend to his business. He hung up before Z could argue.

With nothing left to do, he caught up on tending the flat — primarily laundry, which he’d been throwing into the dryer with dry cleaning sheets as a temporary measure. As he wolfed down slice after slice of pizza, he finally ended up in the office, where his personal laptop was still open to Bond’s gmail, though the account had been automatically logged out after being idle for so long.

Thinking he should probably make inroads on the spam and set up some filters, he logged back into the email and got to work organising it. He had the usual assortment of mailing lists generated by online purchases. There were at least a dozen different sets of emails from gun reviewers and manufacturers mixed in with cultural events newsletters for the London area. He also had an astonishing number of subscriptions to cooking websites that promised easy recipes and cooking lessons for dummies.

Filtering the emails en masse helped clear out most of the backlog, leaving only the one-off emails to go through by hand. Most of those, Q cleared away with a click of the Spam button —

And then, he recognised a thread of emails, all from Trainer Anderson’s email address.

 _Sent: 27 April 2012_  
Subject: Contract Review  
CC: Chris Parker, Sakai Tetsuo

_Mr. Sterling,_

_I’ve attached Q’s contract, with the changes we discussed. If all of the provisions meet your approval, please contact me, and I’ll arrange for a local Marketplace representative to witness formalizing the contract._

_I hope you enjoy your vacation with Q. Please let me know if you need any further arrangements made, including any refresher training._

_Congratulations on this important decision._

_Regards,_

_Imala Anderson_

There were two more emails from Trainer Anderson, both dated after the trip to Mykonos, requesting immediate contact regarding the contract. Had Bond contacted her to start the process of a five-year renewal? Perhaps that was why Bond had arranged for the holiday on Mykonos: to ask Q to renew his contract. Or it could be that he wanted to transfer the contract, maybe to Alec. But no. He wouldn’t. He could have done that in London, through the local office, without bothering Anderson.

Curious, he scrolled back up to the first email and opened the attachment in Google Docs.

Then he sat back, stunned, as he realised that no, it wasn’t for five years at all.

It was the lifetime contract he’d always wanted, but never thought he could have.

 

~~~

 

It had been two and a half months.

Not that they told him that.

Now that the worst of the recovery had passed, Bond was awake and alert. He’d starting paying attention to all the little details, from the names of the rotating group of lackeys to what weapons and devices they carried to reading the time and date on watches whenever they swam into sight.

The observation was a useful distraction from Silva.

Silva, former Double O and fellow rat, as he had explained so carefully.

Silva, whose voice had been the one to threaten him so casually when he had still been in the dark with pain.

Not that the pain stopped. It morphed, became different. Now there were knives and lighters and electricity.

Silva didn’t have any particular use or need from Bond. As it turned out, Silva — insane, lethal, and obsessed with M — wanted nothing more than to break Bond down piece by piece. To watch as Bond cried out or laughed at him or struggled against the straps. To deprive M of one of her ‘pet orphans’ in the cruellest way possible, just because he could.

It was all rather mad when Silva started explaining how they were the same. Two rats on an island.

 _We killed Ronson_ , he’d explained gleefully. _He wasn’t interesting. He wasn’t important. But you, Mr Bond. You’re important. You’re **me**_.

Bond wished he could get free and strap Silva to the chair in his place to show just how very different they were.

Bond had to get out of here.

Ten weeks was a long time. It finally occurred to Bond that it was unlikely that anyone was looking for him. Silva was incredibly intelligent and had taken every precaution to keep MI6 off his trail. He’d even laughed with delight when he had shown Bond his own obituary.

That, of course, was the last straw. If no one was coming for him, Bond was going to have to get himself out. He wanted away from the insane voice. He wanted away from the knives and the fire and the man who seemed intent on vivisecting him — body and mind — just to see his own reflection.

He wanted to go home. He wanted Q.

It was time to get the fuck out of here.


	19. Chapter 19

**Wednesday, 17 October 2012**

For three months, Q had been forced to split his time to maintain his persona as a diligent MI6 employee. He was one of the quartermasters now, trusted not just with junior field agents but the Double O’s. Of course, as the most junior quartermaster, most of his work was in support of the _least_ critical missions the Double O’s often did. Not exactly a challenge.

So while he was running 003 on a mind-numbingly routine mission, bribing a diplomat with extremely expensive tastes, he turned most of his attention to cleaning up and tracking down the single blurry image he’d pulled off a social media website with a figure in the background that _might_ be the assassin, if the timestamp was correct. It was a thin lead, but at this point, Q was about ready to start consulting psychics.

He pushed the image through known databases again, using the authorisation code that went with the SHAPE investigation to give it a higher-than-normal priority. It was a blatant misuse of the code, but Alec had been backing him through every step of the investigation, even going so far as to have a talk with Major Boothroyd about Q’s tasks. Presumably, he’d gone to M as well. At least, Q had yet to be arrested for any security violation.

To his surprise, a hit came back almost immediately. Patrice, no first name. Photographed at Dulles International in Washington DC not two weeks ago. He took a flight to Manila and was suspected of continuing on to Macau.

 _Yes_.

Q signalled to his team second that he needed a brief break and left the collaboration room. As soon as he was back in his office, he phoned Alec on his MI6 mobile. There was no reason to hide this anymore.

“Trevelyan.”

“It’s me. I have something for you,” Q said, pulling up the current file on 006. Priority two mission; that meant Q could co-opt him for this, since SHAPE was still a priority one.

“Go ahead.”

“You’re looking for a freelance assassin who goes by Patrice. He was in DC two weeks ago, and then supposedly Manila and Macau.”

“Bloody fucking hell. Right. I need transport.”

“Already on it. I’m sending you to Macau first. If necessary, you can backtrack to Manila. Should I see who’s available to send there to start investigations on the ground?”

“No. Anyone else will just bugger this all up.”

Painfully conscious that the line was monitored, Q said, quite professionally, “Acknowledged. I’m forwarding your travel arrangements to your mobile. You have... five and a half hours before your plane departs. Contact me when you’re on the ground. I may have more intel for you.”

“Acknowledged. Out,” he said, and rang off.

Q allowed himself the luxury of a quick grin. For the first time in _months_ , they had a promising lead. Now, he had to hope Alec could turn it into something real.

 

~~~

 

**Monday, 22 October 2012**

Five days wasn’t that long. Not long at all, in the grand scheme of things. And it was absolute torture, knowing that they could be close — that Alec could be in _the same city_ as Bond, even separated from him by a single wall, without ever knowing it.

Five days found Q in Danielle’s office, laying out all of the very sketchy intel he’d acquired, primarily through illegal means, not for the purpose of rescuing Bond but to go after the still-missing hard drive.

“It’s unprecedented, opening an entire station’s intelligence compartment to chase a single possible lead,” Danielle said thoughtfully. “You’ve laid out a compelling argument, I’ll grant, but you don’t have the clearance. _I_ don’t have the clearance.”

Ruthlessly suppressing his impatience, Q nodded calmly. “I understand, ma’am. But it’s only a matter of time before the contents of the hard drive are decrypted, at which point —”

“Yes, not only are _we_ compromised, but our allies’ operations as well.” She sighed and looked down at her desk for long, silent seconds that slid by far too slowly. Q tried to find his inner calm, but he hadn’t been able to relax his mind and meditate for months.

Finally, Danielle shifted to rise. Q stood as well, all of his anxious tension returning in a rush.

“I’ll discuss it with Major Boothroyd. You’ve been working this angle for long enough that you’ll be a valuable contributor, even if you aren’t the lead,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he answered politely, hiding his frustration. Under any other circumstance, he’d be amused at how infuriating it was to follow the rules, even though he’d structured his whole life around obedience and service. _But that’s different_ , he thought irrationally as he let himself out of Danielle’s office. He’d broken the rules to save Bond’s life before, and he would do it again.

So he went back to his office, but he knew he wouldn’t get any work done. Better to find a more productive use of his time. He gathered up his coat and umbrella, picked up his laptop bag — with his personal laptop — and headed for the lift, thinking he’d go for a walk outside. He knew precisely where MI6’s surveillance stopped. He’d go to the cafe a short distance away and contact Alec to update him. Then he’d have an early lunch and use the cafe’s wifi to perform a few significantly less legal searches.

 

~~~

 

Bond put up a token resistance as some of Silva’s men came to drag him out of his cell for another session. For a week now he’d had at least enough strength to fight his way free from the men, but he needed more information about where he was and how plausible it was for him to escape before he would try it. As it was, his continuing over-exaggerated state of ill-health had the guards completely fooled. All he needed was a gun, some time, and an escape plan that might actually work.

Even Silva, for how bloody intelligent he claimed to be, seemed to be growing complacent, as if he had forgotten just how strong and skilled and _lethal_ Bond was. He’d taken to touching him, to leaning close, to turning his back on him. All of these were very good signs for the plausibility of an escape.

Just a little while longer, and he could leave. Go home. To Q.

Oh, how furious Q was going to be with him, Bond thought as he was being cuffed carelessly into the chair. Ten weeks he’d been declared dead, after months of being away from Q, on this bastard’s tail. Bond shoved away any thought that Q might have moved on, put himself back on the auction block or otherwise done anything that would make him _not_ be home. Q loved him and would probably need some time to deal with his grief. He didn’t need money or a place to live — hell, Bond had paid for Q’s lifetime contract before this whole mess, so Q would have an extra million pounds or so in his bank account. Q had plenty of time to think, and Bond was certain he’d take advantage of it.

Q would still be there when he got back.

_Q would still be there when he got back._

The mantra helped calm him as he heard the now-familiar footsteps of Silva coming up behind him.

 

~~~

 

Even in winter, the afternoon climate in Macau was warm. Alec wore a sleek designer suit in keeping with his identity as a new money Russian, the perfect target for Macau’s casinos. He waved imperiously at the bartender for another vodka and didn’t look at his target.

“Ms Marsh won’t open the records from our local office,” Q said, his voice rendered in perfect clarity by the very expensive Bluetooth earpiece Alec rudely wore as part of his cover identity.

“No need. I found an old friend who gave me some sales leads,” he answered in heavily accented English, grinning like a shark as he stared pointedly at the bartender’s back. She wore a dress that was open from nape to tailbone, and her back was a long, sinuous line meant to draw the eye. Of course, he paid more attention to his target, three seats down from where the bartender was pouring, but the other man’s eyes were fixed firmly to her arse. Alec could’ve set off a flashbang and he probably wouldn’t have blinked.

“Trustworthy, I hope. We can’t have our accounts compromised,” Q answered, sticking to unsecure communications protocols. Alec’s mobile and earpiece intentionally used standard commercial encryption. God, it was nice to have someone who could be trusted to not slip up, even when tempted. No wonder why Bond had been so adamant to get Q into the Quartermaster programme.

“No one’s trustworthy. Not in this business.”

“How much of a percentage is he taking?”

“None. I convinced him to do this as a personal favour,” Alec said without a hint of regret. The chain of underground information had been tenuous and sketchy until finally, _finally_ Alec had taken the time to have a nice, long chat with his most recent informant.

“That’s good,” Q answered, though his voice sounded too light and strained. He’d been at MI6 long enough to know what ‘convinced’ really meant. “Is there anything I can do to assist?”

“Keep an eye out for competition. The local sales reps are cutthroat. I’d rather have this deal finalised before I go back to my hotel.”

_“Tonight?”_

Alec cursed himself for the sudden hope he heard in Q’s voice. Thinking he was close to the end of the trail and actually _finding Bond_ were two very different things. Very calmly, he said, “I’m on my way to a dinner meeting right now. Reception is spotty. It’s about an hour and a half away, so I’ll be out of touch for a bit.”

He heard Q inhale, shaky and ragged. “I’ll see what I can do about the locals,” he said, over the sudden sound of typing.

Alec wanted to warn Q to be careful. To tell him not to get his hopes up, because this could be another dead end or worse. But he needed that hope on the other end of the line. He needed something good and positive and _pure_ to pull him back out if he went too far into the darkness.

At the far end of the bar, his target got up. Alec’s worry disappeared as if a switch had been flipped. The mission came first; it had to.

Casually, he said, “ _Spasibo_. I’ll ring back if I need anything more.” Without waiting for Q’s response, he rang off, finished his drink, and turned his mind to finding a private place to have a quick chat with his target.

 

~~~

 

“Dinner interrupted,” Silva huffed as he took his place at his laptop. “And for what? I thought this might be the hand of another rat revealing himself, but alas — no such luck. Just one of Boothroyd’s hackers.” He looked up and grinned at Bond, his white hair and intense gaze vicious and frightening. “Let’s see what we can do about him.”

Bond’s heart clenched as he watched Silva work. A TSS hacker?

Silva’s gaze went sharp then, and he leaned forward. “ _Clever_ little rat,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. His typing became sharper, fingers loud on the keys. His eyes widened as he paused, scanning whatever was on the screen. From the chair, Bond could only see a spreadsheet thick with numbers. The numbers were in a pattern — the same number repeated in every cell of the table. Zeroes?

“No, no, _no!_ ” Silva shouted, voice echoing in the huge, broken room, momentarily drowning out the hum of a hundred cooling fans. He rose and kicked his chair away, sending it flying against the wall.

Bond waited, donning an expression of polite — even bored — disinterest as he watched Silva lose his temper.

“Who is it?” Silva demanded, wheeling on Bond. He lashed out, backhanding Bond across the face with stunning force. “Who is it!”

“TSS is full of hackers,” Bond said mildly, ruthlessly suppressing any possible reaction that might give away the fact that he was emotionally involved with one of them. “They all look the same to me, I’m afraid.”

With a furious snarl, Silva hit him again, this time hard enough that the chair toppled onto its side. Bond grunted with genuine pain when his abused right shoulder hit the cement floor, but elation cut through the agony. The chair, like everything else here, was old. His hands were cuffed around a bar that felt like it had suddenly come loose.

“I will —” Silva kicked hard, the toe of his perfectly polished dress shoe impacting Bond’s abdomen. It didn’t quite knock the wind out of him, but it hurt like hell. Over Bond’s gasps, Silva continued, “— _destroy_ it all, Mr Bond!” He kicked a second time, rage making him clumsy; the blow caught Bond on his thigh hard enough to bruise, but did no significant damage. “I” — another kick — “will make” — another, glancing against ribs that had cracked and healed — “her _pay_!”

It was Q. It had to be Q. Who else was smart enough to crack through Silva’s systems?

Silva glared down at him, almost panting in his rage. Then he turned and stalked towards his laptop. “Clever, clever little rat,” he said, his vicious tone becoming mocking. “But there’s no more room for another rat. This rat has to die, Mr Bond. All the rats have to die, except for the strong ones. And _this_ little rat...” He broke into a laugh. “This little rat is going to burn, with all the rest of them.”

Concern spiked through Bond, and he worked as fast he was able without giving himself away. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” Bond huffed as he worked his hands free of the bar. “I thought you were going to go for the up close and personal kill, to be honest.”

To Bond’s frustration, Silva didn’t answer him until he was finished typing. Then, beaming, he turned and went back to where Bond was still on his side. He crouched down and ran the back of his hand over Bond’s cheek almost affectionately. “From rooms like this, the whole world is up close and personal,” he said, and gave Bond’s hair a quick, hard ruffle. “A man like me has no need to touch” — he prodded at Bond’s forehead with one finger — “to destroy. I am everywhere.” He stood and brushed his hand on his trousers. “You... I’m afraid you are nowhere, Mr Bond.”

“Nowhere?” Bond said with a snort. “Very poetic. If that were the case, I imagine you’d be a good deal less angry right now about whoever is coming close to finding you.”

“An inconvenience. No one is close.” Silva chuckled and shook his head sadly. “And that includes you. Your tale ends here, Mr Bond. Do you have any last words you’d like me to bring to Mother for you?”

“She’s a terrible shot,” Bond said with a huff.

Silva’s kick caught Bond completely off his guard. He gasped for breath and watched, nauseous, as Silva went back to the laptop. After a few quick keystrokes, he unplugged it from the power cord and set it down on the floor in front of Bond.

Ominously, the scene was familiar: MI6 seen from across the Thames. Bond recognised the wedge of concrete and grass that was the Riverside Walk Gardens. He’d seen that view from M’s office. TSS was just two storeys below. He could pick out Major Boothroyd’s window. Q’s workstation was buried deep within the building, away from the windows.

“Goodbye, Mr Bond,” Silva called as he walked away. Then, just as casually, he turned to the guards lurking at the back of the room and said, “Let him see the evidence of my wrath. Then, feed him to the rats. There’s so little food for them here.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Monday, 22 October 2012**

Broadcast on the CCTV Silva had pirated, the explosion was soundless. It could have been done with miniatures or CGI. But Bond knew it was real. He watched thick black smoke billow from the shattered windows of M’s office, and he mentally calculated the force required to break that reinforced polycarbonate.

Twelve years ago, someone launched an antitank rocket at MI6, causing cosmetic damage against a window on the eighth storey. But this explosion had come from inside, which meant the damage inside could be far, far worse.

_No._

Bond distracted himself with trying to imagine that there wasn’t actually much inside MI6 to cause the sort of damage Bond saw on the screen. But the denial lasted only microseconds — the Chem lab, Biochem, Munitions, TSS R&D... there were enough explosives inside the building to take out a small country if necessary.

Or, worse, someone could have planted a bomb.

 _No_.

Q.

For the first time since becoming Silva’s prisoner, Bond hoped desperately that Q hadn’t been there at all. That he’d left MI6 to seek comfort from old friends in the Marketplace.

But for the hacker. Danielle wasn’t that fast, and TJ wasn’t adversarial enough.  It had to be Q.

Q.

Behind him, he heard Silva’s two soldiers approach. One asked, in Mandarin Chinese, “Good enough?”

“It should be,” the other answered. Then, in English, he demanded, “You see enough?”

The crushing despair and grief was momentarily overwhelming, and Bond was tempted to just let them kill him. What was the point anymore? He was so tired, so _fucking tired_ , of thinking he’d found someone only to have them taken away from him in the most brutal and dramatic way possible. Without someone to come home to, the thought of marching on to serve queen and country was bleak. It was as if he’d spent his whole life in the underground and then been released to see sunlight, only to have it taken away again.

But then anger coursed through Bond, strong and familiar, and every thought was replaced with a vicious need for revenge.

Silva would pay.

Five minutes too late, Bond finally wrenched himself free of the chair. He twisted and swept hard at the guards’ ankles, despite the pain in his legs from Silva’s kick. Caught wrong-footed, the first guard went down; the second tripped, and the moment’s distraction was all Bond needed. He slammed both feet into the first guard’s face and then rolled back, forcing his bound hands in front of himself. He got up to his knees as the second guard recovered, gun swinging around —

And then he dropped, the side of his skull exploding in a spray of bloody mist and brains. Bond recoiled, instinctively bringing his cuffed hands up to shield his face.

“Christ, James, do I have to fucking do _everything_ for you?” Alec asked.

Quivering with rage and pain and grief, Bond got to his feet and turned to stare at Alec. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked coldly. There was no room for relief or gratitude. If he gave in to emotion now, he wouldn’t be upright for long. And he needed to get to Silva.

Taken aback, Alec spared one moment to look Bond over. “Right. What’s gone wrong?” he asked, taking off his black military jacket.

Alec’s voice was a distant echo under the sound of blood rushing through Bond’s ears. His heart rate slowed as the familiar weight of the mission settled over his shoulders. “Later,” he said grimly as he went to search the guards for keys to the cuffs. Alec gave him a look but said nothing; he just went to stand guard while Bond unlocked the cuffs and took a jacket from one of the dead guards. He needed pockets to carry the dead guards’ weapons and spare mags. He wasn’t cold yet, though shock would kick in soon. He had a limited window to work with. He had to be perfect. For Q.

When he was ready, he told Alec, “Let’s go.”

It was so easy to fall into old ways. He and Alec fought as one, covering and advancing without ever having to coordinate. For weeks, Bond’s world had been limited to a cell that he thought was underground, three flights of cracked concrete stairs, and the room where Silva interrogated him, dined with him, and tortured him. Now, with blood still wet on his bare feet, he finally saw the outside of the building and night-black water. Were they on the edge of the mainland? An island?

In the dark, Bond could only see that Silva’s hideout was little more than a single bunker, three storeys high, hardly wider than the room with all the computers. The building was surrounded by rocks and weeds. Everything was covered with bird shit.

Alec had a black inflatable raft with a small motor. He and Bond pushed it into the water, splashed in after it, and then hauled themselves over the side. Bond needed Alec’s help.

“There’s a tarp up front. Get under it before you freeze to death,” Alec shouted over the roar of the motor. He’d opened the throttle, depending more on speed than stealth for their escape.

Bond lifted his hand with the gun still firmly trapped in his grip and saw that he was shaking again. He didn’t care, really, except that it would slow down his hunt for Silva. “Where did he go?” he asked Alec roughly as he tugged at the tarp.

“Which ‘he’?” Alec asked. “A chopper lifted off when I was a few minutes out, if that’s what you mean.”

“Markings? Direction? We need to follow it.” Bond looked up and scanned the sky, but there was no sign of the helicopter. “Now.”

“Q’s probably already tracking it. We’ve got shit for comms here, but once we’re on the mainland, we’ll call in.”

“Q,” Bond repeated tonelessly, staring down at the gun in his hands. “You spoke to him. Recently.”

“About four hours ago.” Alec shifted and then leaned towards Bond, holding out his hand. In the faint light of the half-moon, Bond could see he was holding something small. “This is yours. It was delivered to the hotel in Mykonos. Once I saw what was inside, I kept it hidden from Q.”

Bond took the box, heart pounding. The rings. He had arranged to have them delivered to the hotel, to keep them a surprise.

“Was Q at TSS?” he asked, heart in his throat, as he took the lid off the box.

“Yeah. It’s only... what, two in the afternoon there? Three? Fuck if I know.”

Bond’s heart stuttered, and the air left his lungs in a low exhale that refused to turn into an inhale.

Q was at TSS. Helping Alec. Trying to find Bond.

MI6 had just exploded from the inside.

“Oh, god,” he whispered quietly, closing his eyes against the sight of the bright metal — bespoke rings of hammered silver. He pulled the rings free from their little velvet nests and let them drop into his hand. The clinking noise as they fell together was a knife to his heart.

“James?” Alec leaned forward again and put his hand over Bond’s. “Are you hurt? Were you hit?”

“He made me watch,” Bond said, shaking his head as if it would help banish the images of smoke and glass and brick falling free from the building. “Headquarters has been bombed from the inside. By Silva. The man who had me.”

“Headquarters?” Alec asked sharply, his hand tightening over Bond’s. _“MI6?”_

“Yes,” Bond replied, carefully tucking the rings back into the box. He was sure that there was a tradition for dealing with situations like this, but he didn’t know it yet. So he carefully put the package away and stared up at Alec. “I need to find Silva.”

Alec stared back, searching his expression. Then he ripped open the velcro straps of his body armour so he could get to the inside pockets of the shirt beneath. He took out two mobiles and tossed one to Bond. “Power up every ten minutes, check for signal, then power down. No sense wasting battery. We’ll need intel. Macau can run the op. I scared the piss out of the local station chief already, so he’s tractable.”

Bond nodded, letting the details wash over him, letting Alec’s voice slip through the cracks. He leaned against the side of the boat and let his head fall to stare at the gun again. “He waited for me?” he asked quietly. “He would have been there when I got back?”

“He waited,” Alec said quietly. “He helped me find you. He made it into the Quartermaster programme for you.”

“Fuck, Alec.” He rubbed at his face to hide the way his hands trembled. By now, he had a thick beard, probably shot through with grey, and he felt as if he’d lost at least a stone, maybe two. Q would scold —

 _He wouldn’t_. Not ever again.

The grief hit, a sharp stab of pain that made his eyes sting and breath catch. He forced it down ruthlessly, clenching his hands until his knuckles burned.  “If I had just been ten minutes faster...”

“We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Alec said grimly. “Whatever intel you’re going off, it’s unconfirmed. Hell, M released your bloody obituary, and we still came after you. Don’t you _dare_ fucking give up on him.”

“Silva is a former Double O. Lost his bloody mind somewhere along the way. He’s out for revenge against M,” Bond said dispassionately. He put the box into the breast pocket of the jacket and smoothed the velcro down to seal it in place. Then he picked up his stolen gun and turned it in his hands. “He blew up the building, and made me watch from CCTV on his laptop.”

“And I told Q that I wouldn’t believe you were dead until I saw the body — and the DNA test.” Alec looked out at the night-black water. “We’ll go to Station M. We’ll find out what the fuck is going on. Then we’ll either go after your target, or we’ll go home.”

Bond wouldn’t hope. _Couldn’t_ hope. He didn’t have it in him to be proven wrong. So he nodded again and waited.

 

~~~

 

**Thursday, 25 October 2012**

It took two days to return to London. Station M had nothing for them. No idea where Silva was. No communication with MI6. The government was on high alert. Terrorist groups were scrambling to claim responsibility. Every station was in a panic, cut off from HQ.

In the end, it was Felix Leiter of the CIA who gave Alec and Bond sanctuary in the form of a USAF transport out of the Philippines to RAF Lakenheath, an hour and a half north of London. From there, they commandeered a car for the drive down the M11.

Bond had spent most of the two days in silence. He knew that it worried Alec, but he didn’t have it in him to be reassuring. He’d been shot by one of their own, off a bridge, into a river. Then he’d been pulled out and brought back to life by the same men who started to torture him immediately. _Three months_ of torture and pain. Then he’d had to watch as Silva destroyed one of the few places left that Bond ever felt safe, along with his lover.

Q, who had been in the building when Silva set off his explosions.

Alec held steadfastly to the belief that Q was fine, but Alec was an optimist by nature. It was how he’d managed to find Bond so long after his disappearance.

But as much as he wanted to cling to Alec’s hope, claim it for his own, Bond couldn’t. Of course, on the other side, he wouldn’t shout and cry and grieve — not yet. There was nothing but cold fury and hard determination. He would wait, in silence, until Q’s status was confirmed.

It was past midnight, three days after the belated rescue, when they arrived at MI6, only to find it cordoned off by the Met. Bond sat in their commandeered car, wearing the ill-fitting clothes he’d acquired at Station M, and watched Alec nearly get himself arrested. Bond’s hand itched for a gun, but he’d surrendered his stolen weapon at Station M; the USAF tended to get twitchy about armed foreigners on their planes.

Finally, Alec stormed back to the car and got in, running down three traffic cones. He turned the car onto Albert Embankment north, but didn’t say anything until they were crossing Lambeth Bridge. “I spoke to one of M’s flunkies. She’s alive, by the way,” he added, glancing at Bond. “She and Tanner were called before an oversight committee when the blast went off.”

Bond didn’t ask. If Alec wasn’t volunteering information, he didn’t know anything yet. There was no reason to ask pointless questions. He probably would have found it humorous that M and Tanner would ever have a reason to be appreciative of an oversight committee if he’d been in the mood for such observations. But the rings sat like a weight in his pocket and the lifetime contract waited for him to sign in front of a Marketplace representative.

He _needed_ Q.

“They’ve moved headquarters,” Alec continued once he turned onto Lambeth Bridge. “Tanner just said to go to the Treasury, and someone would meet us.”

Bond’s mouth quirked in a half-hearted smile as they drove to the building. The Treasury? There was a joke there somewhere about MI6 executives hanging about the Treasury, but Bond didn’t bother to chase the thought.

The Treasury was a low, white building, ornately styled. As they approached, Alec’s MI6 mobile rang. He answered it with a gruff, “What?” And then, he said, “All right... There. I see you. The blue car.”

Alec pulled the car to the kerb, and the back door opened. Tanner got in, looking impeccably neat despite the late hour. “006 — Holy _Christ_ ,” he snapped when he spotted Bond.

“Oh, I picked up James on the way home from Macau,” Alec said bluntly. “What the fuck is going on?”

Bond could feel Tanner staring at him, but Tanner didn’t address him directly. After a few seconds, he turned to Alec and said, “Head for Westminster Bridge. The entrance is down below.” Once Alec got the car moving in the proper direction, Tanner asked, “What happened to you, Bond?”

Bond wanted to ask about Q, but as far as he knew, Tanner wouldn’t have recognised Q on sight. “Captured immediately after I was shot off the bridge,” he responded brusquely. “Held by the madman behind the SHAPE debacle ever since. The one who blew up headquarters, by the way.”

“I’ll alert Medical, in that case. You look ghastly — though I’m overjoyed to see you,” Tanner said, most of his attention on the mobile in his hands as he typed. “I assume you’re going to make a fuss?”

“Do you have a complete casualty list?” Bond asked tightly, looking at Tanner’s mobile.

“We have a half dozen who are unconfirmed but presumed, I’m afraid.” Tanner looked up, meeting Bond’s eyes. “You probably know Major Boothroyd didn’t make it. He was apparently on his way up to the executive offices, where the blast was centred.” He went back to typing as he added, “Did Q tell you? He’s taken over TSS for the time being, on Ms Marsh’s recommendation.”

The choked sound Bond made was completely undignified and absolutely warranted. Relief swept over Bond in an overwhelming wave, and he bent over and closed his eyes to concentrate on his breathing. All this time, all the panic, the crushing weight of fear, and Tanner casually swept it all away with quick assumption.

“Oh, god,” he breathed. “Thank god. Alec...”

“I told you,” Alec said, and though he sounded insufferably smug, Bond saw the way his hands clenched the steering wheel.

“Fucking hell,” Bond said, grinning, gripping Alec’s shoulder. Then he turned his gaze on Tanner. “Was he hurt? Is he fine? How is he?”

Sounding baffled, Tanner said, “He’s fine. He wasn’t —” Then he cut off, his eyes going wide as he looked to Alec, then back to Bond. He opened his mouth, closed it, and resolutely looked back down at his mobile. “Up ahead. Wood carriage doors. Drive up and they’ll open,” he said tightly. He stared even more intently at his mobile, typing non-stop with four fingers, despite the tiny keyboard.

Alec glanced into the backseat, shot Bond a raised eyebrow, and then turned at the wooden carriage doors. True to Tanner’s word, they swung silently open, revealing a small airlock-style driveway with a second gate, this one metal, and a guardhouse. Only when the wooden doors — reinforced with steel plates on the back — had closed did the inner door open, admitting them into a steeply sloped tunnel.

“Where exactly are we going?” Alec asked, riding the brake as the heavy car started down the ramp.

Tanner looked up as the headlamps glowed on old brickwork arches and gently rounded walls. “Churchill’s old bunkers. The most secure place we could easily acquire without leaving London.”

“And Q’s there?” Alec asked, shooting a glance at Bond before he looked into the rearview mirror. “He’s safe?”

“Of course. You haven’t talked —” Then Tanner winced and apologetically said, “Of course. I’m sorry. We have jammers. It’s been a bit of a mess, as you can imagine. All available critical staff have been working ’round the clock. We’re rebuilding the whole bloody network from the ground up. We don’t even have trusted comms to MI5. We’re sending hardcopy messages, to tell you how vulnerable we are.”

Bond’s immediate reaction to the news — to let himself fall blissfully under the tide of relief that swept over him — was tempered by the realisation that Q had taken over for Boothroyd. MI6 was in chaos and wasn’t even trusting MI5 with comms, meaning that Q was probably in charge of rebuilding the system.

In other words, he was probably very, very busy.

With an annoyed internal shrug, Bond looked out the window and watched the damp walls pass by. Though he wanted to care about the safety and security of headquarters, he was having a very hard time convincing himself not to just walk in, scoop up Q, tell M he’d resigned, and take them off to Mykonos for that holiday he’d never been able to go on.

The need for revenge on Silva almost didn’t win out.

“Do you know anything about the bomber?” Bond asked casually.

“It was a cyber-attack. Bloody environmentalists with their smart-buildings, and suddenly everything’s vulnerable in new ways,” Tanner said grimly. “Q’s got the entire IT department in an uproar. Really, at one point, I thought he was going to take out a knife and start stabbing them, he was so infuriated. Danielle’s coordinating that, for now, but I expect to see quite a few resignations once the dust has settled. What we _do_ know, though, is that it was an inside job.”

“You said Silva was a Double O,” Alec said, glancing at Bond again.

“Silva?” Tanner asked sharply. “Who’s Silva?”

“Your bomber, and the one who has been playing Etch-a-Sketch with my skin for the past three months,” Bond said darkly.

“A Double O called Silva? We’ve never had a Silva in the programme,” Tanner protested.

“An impostor?” Alec suggested.

“A fake name,” Bond replied easily, distracted by thoughts of an infuriated Q going after lazy or incompetent techs at TSS. He almost felt sorry for them, knowing that Q was probably taking his anger and frustration at his search for Bond out on the team.

 _Almost_ sorry.

“Right. Park up ahead, 006,” Tanner said worriedly. “We need to see M.”

“She’s here? At this hour?” Alec asked as he slowed the car, parking in front of a heavy metal door with two soldiers standing guard in full combat kit.

“No one’s left for two days, and I don’t expect that will change anytime soon. Welcome to your new home, gentlemen.”

Bond sighed and comforted himself with the thought that two beds could be lashed together in Medical, and no one would have the time to argue or object.

 

~~~

 

To Alec, it seemed wrong somehow to follow Tanner into a narrow, glass-walled cupboard with a plastic conference table and folding chairs, rather than M’s spacious, high-tech office. M was standing there, of course, talking on a landline phone while leaning over a laptop. The cords were duct-taped to the edge of the table, plugged into two daisy-chained power strips that stretched across the tile floor.

“I’ll call you back,” she said, sharp eyes snapping between Alec and Bond. She hung up the handset and straightened stiffly. Her face was drawn with fatigue and her skirt was wrinkled, but she otherwise looked as fierce as always. And more furious than Alec had ever seen her. “Where the _hell_ have you two been?”

They both looked like shit, and Alec knew it. Of course, Bond looked worse, wasted from hunger, eyes sunken and dark. But the fire was back — the light that had been quenched at the thought that Q was dead, now reignited by Tanner’s so-casual declaration that Q was perfectly fine.

Alec refused to think about the effect of that announcement on himself.

“Just putting to test our Resistance to Interrogation training,” Bond answered, his voice light and sharp, like a poisoned needle. “Quite effective, as it turns out. Oh, and I have a name and description of the bomber for you, if it helps.”

M let out a sigh and sat down, waving impatiently to the seats across the table. “Tanner —”

“On it, ma’am,” he said, heading right back out of the office. Alec glanced over his shoulder to see Tanner go for another conference table nearby, where he bent to rifle through a cardboard box that apparently took the place of proper desk drawers.

“The hard drive?” M asked, looking at Alec.

“No sign, ma’am. I brought James back as a consolation prize,” he said with a shrug. The anger was still burning deep inside as he stared at the woman who was the cause of so much pain. She’d given the order. It might well have been her fucking finger on the trigger, nearly destroying not just one life but three.

Alec looked away at the grimy brick wall. For almost ten years, he’d been utterly loyal to M. She’d shepherded him through the distrust engendered by his heritage and spoken in his defence before more than one review board. But she was a self-centred, heartless bitch, and the fact that she had to be was no excuse. Even now, Bond didn’t need a fucking after action review. He needed to see Q, to reassure himself that Q really was alive and unharmed.

And so did Alec, even though it wasn’t his place. Not anymore.

M turned to Bond. “You’re an absolute mess. You’re going to Medical, even if I have to shoot you myself,” she threatened.

“Again? I think I’ve had enough of that to last me a long while,” Bond said with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t glare at me, Bond. You would have done the same thing. You know the cost of doing what we do.”

“I’d like to think that you would have trusted my ability to finish the job more than the untested aim of a green agent with a shaky hand,” he snapped back.

“If we could get to the intel we have,” Alec interrupted, anger finally surging bright and hot through him. He didn’t flinch when M turned to stare at him. Before she could say anything, he snapped, “Whatever you have to say, _ma’am_ , I don’t give a bloody buggering fuck. You apparently have a rogue Double O out there — or someone who claims he is — and this was an inside job, so let’s clean our bloody house and save the shouting match for when it’s all over!”

They both stared at him, and he felt a moment of vicious triumph at the thought that he’d finally silenced M. It was Bond who broke the silence first, turning back to M.

“Spanish heritage. My height. Bleached hair, high cheekbones, propensity for madness, torture, and hacking.” M sat back abruptly, going pale. “Likes to wear white and roll his eyes. No scars on his face, a knife scar on his left wrist on the inside. Sound familiar?” he added, watching her, knowing she knew who he was. “Goes by Silva.”

“Rodriguez,” she said quietly. “Tiago Rodriguez. _Tanner!_ ”

He was at the door an instant later. “Ma’am?”

“Tiago Rodriguez.”

“That’s — Good god, he’s dead, isn’t he?” Tanner asked.

M looked at Bond, lips pressed tightly together as she searched his face. Then she shook her head. “Apparently not. Rectify that. Put everything we have on it.”

Before Tanner could move, Bond’s fists clenched. “I want him,” he snarled, and Alec held his tongue. The kill wasn’t his to claim, no matter how fucking desperately he wanted it to be otherwise.

M stared into Bond’s eyes, silent and sharp, stripping away his secrets. She was practically telepathic, the way she could read all of her agents. Slowly, she nodded. “You’ll have to requalify. Get to Medical — no arguments. If I hear you caused one _whiff_ of trouble, I’m sending you to the Met to be a bloody traffic warden. 006, go with him. Tanner, show them the way and get a full debriefing from the both of them.”

Sick of her cold-hearted delays, Alec said, “Q —”

“Tanner, out,” M interrupted, and he backed out of the doorway. When M was in this mood, no one argued. As the door creaked closed, M lowered her voice and said, “You can settle the question of Q later. For right now, he’s _mine_ , and if I catch you interrupting, you can both bloody well be traffic wardens. Understand?”

Alec hid his possessive reaction; Bond didn’t. “I want to see him,” Bond demanded. “The three of us have nothing to argue over, and if anything, the knowledge that we’re both back alive will have him _less_ distracted, not more.”

When M didn’t answer immediately, Alec added grimly, “I’m with James on this one. We can’t burn these tunnels down, but we can cause one hell of a quake.”

“Don’t get stroppy with me,” M warned. “But you _might_ be correct in this case. I need him at his best. I’ll have him sent to you. Ten minutes. One _second_ more, and you’re both out.”

“When this is over, when I bring Silva’s head back for you, you will not continue to interfere with our interpersonal relationships,” Bond said firmly. “Q is only here because I encouraged him to be, and he _will_ leave if I ask.”

“I’ve given him the entire Technical Services Section and half of IT,” M warned, “and it was _your_ doing. You’re _both_ mine, and neither one of you is leaving unless I say otherwise.”

“Yes, it _was_ my doing. Which is why you should trust both of us. All three of us. And let us be.”

“If either of you suggests a group hug, I’m going to start throwing grenades,” Alec suggested casually, hiding his disgust at the pointless sniping. If M didn’t dismiss them — if Bond didn’t just fucking get up and walk out — Alec would, because _someone_ needed to tell Q the news.

M made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. “Get out, both of you. And welcome back, 007.”

Bond smirked and stood. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a deferential bow of his head that was utterly false. “I’ll be in Medical.”

Alec stared at M, not moving until she met his eyes. And though he didn’t say a word, his thoughts were clear enough for her to read: _Stay the fuck out of our business_.


	21. Chapter 21

**Thursday, 25 October 2012**

There was only so much _idiocy_ a man could take.

For nine years, Q had prided himself on his ability to tolerate almost anything. Irrational orders, sexual frustration, stress, fear, exhaustion. He could handle it all.

Now, staring at the paper-pusher who was actually wielding a printed, comb-bound binder as if it were some sort of sacred text, his only thought was that Bond and Alec had perhaps overtrained him to think violence might be a perfectly acceptable solution in stressful situations. He was carrying a gun, after all. For the first time, he was very tempted to use it.

“I don’t care,” he said calmly. At least, it sounded calm. He could hear the razor-sharp edge in his own voice, but very few other people would pick up on it.

“It’s _right here_ ,” the older man countered. He was an IT Team Lead or Senior Tech or whatever the _fuck_ they called themselves. He opened the binder to a page marked with a little red Post-it flag sticking out of the side — one of about a hundred such flags, all colour-coded and numbered — and showed Q a page of numbered Times New Roman with the MOD logo at the top and document control boxes in the footer. “It says —”

“Let me see,” Q interrupted, snatching the binder out of the man’s grasp. Q was long past tired and frustrated. He was existing on caffeine, sugar, fury, and an underlying current of fear and grief, because MI6 had _blown up_ and he couldn’t contact Alec and he still had no idea if Bond was alive and now M had given him one-and-a-half bloody departments to fix.

He spun away and went to his temporary desk, a makeshift conference table balanced on crates of printer paper to boost it to standing-height, because as soon as he sat down, he was at risk of dozing off. His feet were killing him.

The words on the page made no sense, but that was no surprise. Reading comprehension had failed a good two hours ago. If it wasn’t code, it was practically Greek.

He dropped the regs into the little wire wastepaper bin someone had brought down to him a day and a half ago. “Oops,” he said dryly. Then, as the paper-pusher squawked in protest, Q took from his pocket the lighter he always carried, bent over, and lit the book on fire.

The ensuing threats — destroying government property, insubordination, lighting a bloody fire in a workspace — all flowed over Q like wind, there and gone again, leaving no trace. The smell of burning seventy per cent recycled paper was surprisingly relaxing. He pocketed his lighter, thinking that the fire was warm and cheerful in this dank, enclosed space, though at some point, oxygen might become a consideration.

There were, however, no overhead sprinklers or even smoke alarms to interrupt. So he pushed the squawking man out of his mind and turned back to his laptop, trying desperately to remember what he was doing.

Ah. Reviewing Danielle’s emergency purchase order. They had to rebuild _everything_.

“Your office is on fire.”

Q blinked, lifting his head to look across his office — essentially a niche carved into the tunnel wall. “Sir,” he said politely to Tanner, even though they were technically equals now. At least, Q thought they were. He remembered someone showing him an org chart at some point.

Tanner gave him a sympathetic look. “M sent me to fetch you,” he said gently. “Would you come with me, please?”

At the moment, M was the only person in all of MI6 from whom Q would tolerate an interruption. He locked his laptop, closed the lid, and walked out, absently noting the smoke that was collecting at the ceiling.

Tanner looked up as well and said, “I’ll, ah, have someone do something about that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Q went out to the walkway overlooking what had once been the pit where trains ran. Wondering, not for the first time, what that area was normally called, he stopped and poured himself a cup of tea. They were down to using waxed paper cups, which was ridiculous. The cups were too small to provide any noteworthy amount of caffeine, which meant he had to supplement by adding far too much sugar.

Politely, Tanner waited for him, and then led him out into the warren of tunnels.

Another time, Q would have been fascinated by their new headquarters. An unused spur of the London underground, old civic service tunnels, and Churchill’s underground bunker all combined to make a theoretically secure hive. There were flaws, naturally — the damp would play havoc with equipment, and Q had already identified a half dozen rats living in and around his office — but the security was comforting.

On the two occasions he’d allowed himself to sleep for more than an hour, he had nightmares of watching the explosion from the cafe down the street.

He was halfway through his tea before he realised they’d reached the temporary home of Medical division, where the staff was doing a brisk business in plasters and tetanus shots. “I’m fine,” he pre-emptively told Tanner as he stopped in his tracks. He had no time to be tranquilised for a good night’s sleep.

Tanner shot him a confused look. “Sorry?”

Realising he’d skipped part of the conversation, Q explained, “I don’t need to be here. I need to finish the network, or we’ll never get back online.”

“Ten minutes. That’s all M’s authorised.” Tanner gestured for Q to keep walking, and Q sighed to himself but started back down the hall.

They stopped at one of the private patient rooms that had an actual door — most had curtains. Without knocking, Tanner opened the door and said, “Go on in. I’ll wait here.”

Q walked into the room. Four people: one on an exam gurney, half-dressed, the other three standing. Before anything really registered with him, he started to say, “I don’t need —”

“Oh, thank god,” the person on the gurney breathed out in a deep, tired, and deliciously familiar voice. Before Q had a chance to process it, the man was up and out of the bed. He ignored the squawks of the medical personnel to stride across the room and smother Q in a crushing hug. “Thank god,” he repeated, nose and hand buried in Q’s hair.

 _James_ , Q thought. He might have whispered it. Might have shouted it. He felt heat on his arm and leg and knew he’d dropped the tea, but he didn’t care. He clung to Bond, shaking, wondering distantly if this was a cruel hallucination or a dream that would turn into a nightmare, and he tried to hold on even tighter before Bond could disappear.

Distantly, he heard Alec’s voice — _he’s alive, too!_ — ordering everyone out. He heard the door slam shut loudly. He didn’t care, though. Bond was _still here_ , and he cautiously allowed himself to think that this all might actually be real.

“I am so sorry I’m late,” Bond said quietly, holding Q as tight as he was able through the shaking. He stroked a gentle hand up and down Q’s spine, pressing kisses repeatedly into Q’s hair. “I’ve been on an island in the South China Sea which, trust me, isn’t nearly as lovely as it sounds.”

Q tried to find something to say — _anything_ — but he couldn’t think. He felt hands on his shoulders and heard Alec say, “James,” in a significant sort of way, but he didn’t understand or care. Then they were moving, until Bond was sitting on the floor with Q almost curled up on his lap, with Alec crouched down right beside them.

“He said you were alive,” Q heard himself say roughly, voice muffled against Bond’s bare shoulder. He had the distant thought that Bond might be cold, despite the little space heater in the corner, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go so he could find a shirt or blanket for him.

“Thank you for believing him,” Bond said softly, voice cracking as he held on tight to Q. “Are you all right? When I saw the building explode, I...” He trailed off and shook his head. “Are you all right?” he asked again instead. He pulled back a little, lightly grabbing Q’s chin to tip his face up, icy blue eyes searching Q’s face.

Q nodded, more an acknowledgement of Bond’s words than an actual answer. He reached up to touch Bond’s cheek, shocked at how _thin_ he was. To his surprise, Bond flinched away from the touch, ducking to avoid it.

“You’re not,” Q said worriedly, pulling his hand back. He looked down at Bond, tensing as he saw scars, some new, some old, and bruises that were dark purple or faded to sickly yellow. Horror began to creep into his mind as he thought of what had happened to Bond — what he’d been through. He looked up at Alec, who must have known what he was thinking.

“He’ll be fine,” Alec assured him.

“Listen, Q, I don’t have a lot of time — M gave us ten minutes — but I need to talk to you about something,” Bond said, bringing his battered hand from Q’s chin to stroke through his hair. “The man who’s had me all this time is the one who blew up headquarters. Tried to kill you.” For a moment, Bond stopped moving, stopped breathing.

“Me?” Q asked blankly, wondering if he’d fallen into a... What were they called? Microsleep? “Me? Why?”

“You found him,” Bond said, voice tinged with pride. “Found me.”

“And he found _me_?” Q asked, trying to remember. “Oh. Oh, god. It was at the cafe. Their network’s unsecured.”

“Thank fucking god for your caffeine and sugar addiction,” Bond muttered, arms tightening around Q’s body again. “He made me watch when he blew up the building. I thought...” He trailed off, almost crushing Q with the weight of his embrace — though it wasn’t nearly as strong as it would have been three months ago. “After I re-qualify, I’m going back out to eliminate the threat,” he finally said, voice icy with carefully controlled rage.

Q’s first reaction was to beg him not to go. He’d only just come back. He was in no shape to be out in the field. But after two years together (and over six terrible months apart), Q knew better. Bond wouldn’t let anyone else handle this — not even Alec. But... “And Alec?” he asked tentatively, hoping that maybe Bond wouldn’t want to go alone.

“If you think I’m letting him out of my sight, you’re mad,” Alec said soothingly, resting a hand on Q’s shoulder.

Q sighed and buried his face against Bond’s neck, feeling the sort of ragged stubble left over from using a safety razor. Bond froze, body going tense at the contact, and Q backed away again, feeling another stab of fear and worry.

But he tried to hide it; now wasn’t the time. “You need to heal first. Please, James.”

“There isn’t time,” Bond said, relaxing a bit. His hand still stroked over Q’s hair. “And the sooner I leave, the sooner I can come back to take you on holiday.” He chuckled. “I was actually planning on taking you to Mykonos before all this happened. I suppose the leave you’d accumulated has vanished by now, but perhaps I can talk M into rolling it over. I think we’ve earned it.”

“I —” Q cut himself off, glancing at Alec. “I went. I thought... I thought you might be there.”

Bond was quiet for a moment, though the soothing motion of his hands never stopped. “Danielle,” he finally said softly. “Did she tell you?”

“She said you’d want me to go. And Alec — When he said you were alive...” Q shook his head, meeting Bond’s eyes again. “I — We were looking for _anything_. And then Alec found someone, with your email —”

“Bercovitch,” Alec interrupted. “He had intel on the SHAPE infiltration. Silva was hiring a team for it more than a year ago.”

Bond nodded, then turned his head to look at Alec before giving a sharp nod towards the gurney. “Inside left jacket pocket,” he said. “Please.”

Q took a nervous breath. “James,” he said quietly. “I... I found your emails with Trainer Anderson.”

To his surprise, Bond chuckled. “Of course you did. I should have anticipated that,” he said. He watched Alec walk to the jacket, pull a box out of the pocket, and walk back. Bond tried to lift his hand for it, but grunted painfully and lowered his hand again, causing Alec to bend over to place the box in his hand for him.

“I know three months of thinking I might be dead isn’t the ideal time to consider the offer,” Bond said, shaking the lid off with one hand. “And I know that a lifetime contract —”

“Yes,” Q interrupted, breath catching, clipping off the word. He dropped his gaze to look at the box, thinking it was probably a new collar or a new lock — something symbolic. Something as perfect as the identity tags he still wore.

Any trainer in their right mind would tell Q he was insane for even considering anything beyond a contract renewal. The fastest lifetime contract he’d ever heard of was after four years together. But Q had never wanted anything more in his life.

He nodded, thinking of all the ways this was inappropriate and informal, and he didn’t give a damn. “Yes, James,” he repeated more strongly, meeting Bond’s eyes the way he preferred.

Bond’s responding grin was all the more brilliant for how rusty with disuse it was, creasing his face with smile lines that would take time to re-establish. He kissed Q, not slowed at all by his split lip.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling out a smaller box from inside the larger one. “I never got a chance to meet with someone to sign the contract, but I will before I go, if I have the time between tests.” He pulled one of Q’s arms free from around his waist, opened Q’s hand, and gently placed the velvet box on his palm. “We’ll also legalise the arrangement, of course, just to give M less power over us,” he said with a chuckle.

Later, Q would blame his confusion on the exhaustion and stress of the last few days. He opened the box and stared blankly at two matching hammer-finished silver rings. It took him an inexcusably long time to realise what Bond was saying.

 _He does love me_ , Q thought, somehow knowing that Bond would never actually propose without genuine emotion behind the act, even to maintain a polite facade hiding their contract. He nodded, wondering if he should say it. Three little words. Three words that were terribly inappropriate in one sense, but so perfect in another.

He thought about the hotel suite and the way Bond had always treated him. He remembered that Bond wanted honesty first, not formulaic answers.

But he couldn’t help feeling tense and nervous as he said, “I love you, James.”

“God, Q,” Bond said with a sigh of relief. If his embrace was tight before, it now became nearly crushing, Bond’s arms trembling with the effort. “I love you, too.” He finally loosened his grip just enough to lean Q back for another kiss, this one rough and intense.

The last of the fear disappeared in the heady rush of knowledge that he was right about Bond. No more worry that Bond didn’t want him or that he shouldn’t have let himself fall in love or that Bond would send him away in another few years. He was loved, yes, but he was also _wanted_ — something that was often missing in conventional relationships.

It was perfect.


	22. Chapter 22

**Monday, 12 November 2012**

This had been a year of loss: Seven months lost, that he would rather have spent with Q. Innocence lost, as Q saw for the first time the pain and high price that came with being a part of MI6. Skyfall Lodge, lost to Silva’s rabid fury. M... commanding officer, surrogate parent, the leader Bond followed even as he rebelled against her at every turn, dead in his arms.

The RAF helicopter banked sharply, throwing Bond against his harness.

Desperate to distract himself, Bond stared down at his mobile and scrolled absently through a backlog of emails, not really reading the words on the screen. Only when he saw that one letter — _Q_ — did he pause to actually allow the meaning of the words to sink in.

“Huh. Did you hear what they’re calling TSS now?” he asked over the headset that muffled most of the rotor noise.

Alec didn’t turn away from the window. “What’s that?”

“Q Branch.”

Alec shot him a look, even going so far as to pull down his sunglasses and squint against the slanting afternoon sunlight. “You’re not serious. You’re _serious_.” He barked out a laugh, broken with stress and exhaustion, and leaned his head back against his jump seat. “Oh, you are _never_ going to live this down. You pick up a boyfriend on a cruise, and now he outranks you _and_ has a whole bloody division at MI6 nicknamed after him.”

Bond chuckled, then leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. He wanted to go home, to the only home he had left: Q. “Fucking brilliant, isn’t it?”

Quietly Alec said, “We didn’t, you know. Not that I wasn’t bloody tempted.”

A tiny knot of tension that Bond would never have admitted to carrying uncurled from his thoughts. He hadn’t actually suspected it of them; between his rules with Alec and Q’s awareness of his possessiveness, he knew that under more normal circumstances they wouldn’t have really been tempted. But then again, he’d been presumed dead for three months, and even _they_ had to have moments of doubt that he was still alive. As much as he’d meant what he said to Alec, and as much as he wouldn’t have held it against them, the knowledge would have lived under his skin like a tiny splinter.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “Not just for that, but for not giving up.”

Alec looked at him, and even through the sunglasses they both wore and the late afternoon glare, Bond could read the expression in his eyes. Then he turned away and said, “I didn’t do it for you, you bastard. I couldn’t stand the thought of Q moping about. Like kicking a puppy.”

“Don’t worry,” Bond said airily. “Your secret is safe with me. Wouldn’t want him learning about your soft spot and using it to his advantage, now would we? Especially now that he’s a branch lead. Might get you in all sorts of trouble.”

“Yes, well, if you ever go and get yourself killed _again_ , I’ll keep his spirits up.” He glanced in Bond’s direction again. “Don’t get pissed at him that he said he was mine now. He explained it all to me. He had to say _something_ , or he would’ve been locked out of the Quartermaster programme. Possibly out of MI6 altogether.”

Bond turned and looked out the window at the edges of London at sunset, relief creeping in around the edges of his tired and stressed mind. He loved his job, but London was _his_ city. He’d been away for far, far too long, and needed some time here to recuperate, mind and body.

“You did the right thing,” he replied. “Q needed you. And I needed _both_ of you.”

 

~~~

 

They were coming home.

Silva was dead; that news had been broadcast to MI6. M was also dead, but only the directors, including acting director Mallory, knew that just yet.

006 had co-opted a squad from Section 20 and gone after Bond, too late. Now, they were on their way back to London. Before leaving MI6, Q had informed Mallory that he wouldn’t be in for the next three days. Mallory had drawn breath to object, and Q had calmly explained the hours he’d been working over the last three weeks — three weeks in which he’d napped on the sofa in his office and occasionally kipped at Medical and had otherwise lived at his computer. Wisely, Mallory hadn’t objected.

So now, Q stared at the takeaway bags he’d had his driver stop for, and he wondered if it was enough or too much.

The problem, of course, was that Q had no idea _who_ was coming home. For two months, Alec had been living at Bond’s flat. Two months? Three, by now. Q had no idea if Alec still _owned_ his health-hazard of a flat or if he’d simply packed up his belongings and split them between the wardrobe in the master bedroom — now crammed with three sets of clothes — and a storage locker.

Q had finally bought enough food to feed them all, on the assumption that leftovers would be welcome for breakfast. He estimated they’d arrived at RAF Northolt some time ago, which meant they’d be well on their way here. Or one of them would be.

 _Complicated_ , he thought, and started dividing the food between a warm oven, the fridge, and the counter. He binned the bags and containers, along with the questionable remains of what he assumed had once been food lurking in the back of the fridge. Then he went to change.

He was debating a quick shower when he heard the chime of the door alarm. He turned off the water and rushed out as Bond and Alec tumbled in, faces creased in laughter and exhaustion. Bond looked terrible — bloody and scruffy and... were those burns? Alec looked equally as tired, but, for once, didn’t seem like he was in any worse shape than when he’d left.

“I couldn’t replicate that if I _tried_ ,” Bond said, laughing a bit too sharply. “A jump over a hill on the moor, a knee to his face, and his neck snapped like a twig!”

They both burst into laughter again, shedding their coats at the door and kicking off shoes. Q got there in time to take the coats from Alec’s arms and turned to find room for them in the overcrowded cupboard by the door. Hooks. Hooks would solve the problem, at least for some of their coats. He could leave the nicer ones on hangers to keep the shoulders properly shaped, and pile everything else on wall hooks.

“Dinner’s ready. If you’d like to choose the proper wine,” he hinted strongly to Alec, before turning to Bond, “I can put the first aid kit to use.”

Bond stared at Q for a long moment in what almost looked like wonder. Then he quickly covered the steps between them, lifted Q, spun him to brace him against the foyer wall, and kissed him passionately. His movements were slightly clumsy with exhaustion and injury, but his grip on Q’s arms, holding him pinned to the wall, was strong, unfaltering. Welcome, even though it meant Q couldn’t touch back.

After seven months of waiting — seven months of _needing_ — Q couldn’t even think about fighting. All Q wanted was to surrender completely. Right here in the foyer, if that was what Bond wanted.

But apparently Bond had other plans. He kissed slowly, exploring, though he didn’t release Q. After long, blissful moments, Bond finally leaned back and smiled at Q with hazy satisfaction. “Hello, Q.”

Q felt as though his skin had caught fire. Automatically, he said, “Welcome home, James,” while trying not to let his desperation bias his attempt to read what Bond wanted. After so long and with all the changes in their relationship, he had no idea where to even begin — and that was without the additional complication of Alec being here.

Bond dragged a light thumb over Q’s jaw, then stepped back and turned. “I need a shower,” he declared. He beckoned for Q and walked unsteadily towards the bedroom.

Q spared a moment’s consideration for Alec, but there was nothing else he could do. He followed Bond, trying to gather the edges of his wits into order. As soon as they were in the ensuite, Q slipped past Bond to get the shower started. Then he came back and started to reach for Bond to help him out of his borrowed clothes. He’d left for Scotland in his dove grey suit; he’d returned in filthy trousers and an olive drab jumper over a too-tight T-shirt. But in a move that was pure, instinctive reflex, Bond caught Q by the wrists, holding him tight. He took a few deep breaths, expression going from hyper-alert to remorseful. He slowly released Q.

“I’m sorry. It’s just...” Bond frowned and took a step back — a step away from Q. “Perhaps it’s best, for now, that you don’t touch me.”

“Yes, James,” he said, automatically falling back on obedience to hide his confusion. He wasn’t so self-centred as to think he’d done something to upset Bond. This went back to his rescue, when he had flinched from any touch Q, rather than Bond, initiated. But Q had expected that to all go away, once his mission was complete.

Whatever was going on, Bond needed room. Time. So Q turned away, firmly telling himself they’d get through this together, and instead busied himself with taking towels out of the linen cupboard, though there were plenty hanging on the bars.

For a few minutes, the bathroom was filled only with the sound of the shower and Bond undressing himself. Then, over the sound of metal hitting the tile as the belt hit the floor, Bond sighed. “You saw me in Medical, but I don’t think that you actually... There was a lot of damage. It’s superficial, though.” Bond came up behind where Q was unnecessarily checking the water temperature and pressed himself to Q’s back. He grasped Q by the shoulders and gently turned him around, then let go to hold him by the wrists.

Careful not to try and pull away, Q said, “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

Bond nodded, and closed his eyes. “I was under the bastard’s knife for three months. It’s just going to take some time for me to respond normally again to being touched.” He moved his hands to shape Q’s into fists, then squeezed to indicate he wanted Q to hold them there. He let go and pulled Q into a tight embrace. “You’ll just have to be patient with me.”

Q tried to relax, though he didn’t want to even let himself lean into Bond’s body. He closed his eyes, filled with a cold anger that had become all too familiar since joining MI6. But there was nothing he could do — no revenge to be exacted. The ones responsible were dead, along with far too many innocents. All he could do now was to give Bond whatever he needed.

“Anything, James,” he promised softly.

Bond breathed a deep sigh and freed one of his hands from where he’d been holding Q to run it through Q’s hair. “God, I missed you,” he said gruffly. “Let’s never do that again, shall we?”

Q shivered at the touch he’d wanted for so long. He lifted his head to press cautiously against Bond’s hand. “I’m so sorry you had to...” He faltered, thinking of James’ new scars. “I’m sorry about her death, James. I know how close you were.”

Bond exhaled, grip hard enough to crush Q’s body unforgivingly against his, hand going tight in Q’s hair. “We were M’s orphans, Alec and I. Not the only ones, but the only ones left now.”

“I’m sorry,” Q repeated in a whisper. He told himself Bond was exhausted and grieving — that a hot shower and bed would be the best thing for him — but he couldn’t move away. At that very moment, he thought that if the whole bloody building burned down, he could die content, now that he had Bond back with him.

Bond tugged at Q’s hair, pulling it back so Q’s head tipped up to meet Bond’s gaze. Bond’s expression was fierce, and he released Q’s hair only to tug at Q’s collar. He pulled it tight to draw Q into a kiss, holding him close, one arm around Q’s waist and the other on the collar.

Unable to hide the faint, desperate sound, Q put his hands behind his back before he could reach for Bond. He closed his eyes and let himself lean into the embrace, surrendering to the kiss as he had in the foyer. Having Bond back, even like this, still suffering and grieving, was all Q had wanted for so many months.

After a few minutes, Bond pulled away with a pleased sound, petting Q’s hair, breathing hard. His touch detoured from Q’s hair occasionally, reaching down to stroke his neck, his jaw, his throat, before going back to his hair. “I brought Alec home,” he finally said.

Irrationally, Q thought it sounded more like Bond was saying he’d bought a puppy. He hid a slightly hysterical laugh, took a deep breath, and composed himself before saying, “I’m sorry for — I couldn’t stay alone. And his flat... It was hazardous.”

“Never got around to putting away the bomb kit, did he?” Bond said with another laugh. Then he quietly returned to caressing Q.

“He never gave up. And he was good to me.” Q relaxed a bit more and leaned against Bond’s hand, feeling the last of the tension leave his body. “He’s been here since... I’m so glad you’re back, James,” he whispered.

“Would you... Do you...” Bond started with uncharacteristic hesitance. His hand tangled in Q’s hair, and he tugged without any apparent intention. “I know we haven’t had any time, but I would like him to stay tonight.”

At that moment, Q wouldn’t have refused Bond anything at all, even without the collar. This, though, was easy. He owed Alec so much. He nodded, not knowing or caring if letting him stay meant on the sofa or in their bed or even in the bed alone with Bond. “I don’t know that he has anywhere else _to_ go,” he admitted, hearing the lingering, breathless tension in his voice from the faint sting in his scalp. “Whenever he’s been in London, he’s been here.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Bond said softly. “I know you _didn’t_ , while I was gone, and I’m grateful. But we both need you. And each other.”

This time, Q knew he couldn’t risk a misunderstanding. He met Bond’s eyes and was struck again by how much he loved Bond. “Do you... _both_ want me?” he asked, falling to cowardice at the last moment. Bringing up shared ownership seemed far too technical for this intimate moment.

Bond sighed, moving his hand to touch Q’s cheek. “You’re mine, Q. My everything. But sometimes, at times like this, you can be both of ours,” he said quietly.

Q nodded again. “Yes.” He rubbed his face against Bond’s hand, closing his eyes at the touch of rough fingers and ragged nails. “You can let him stay or add his name to the contract — whatever you like, James. He brought you back.” His breath caught as he thought of how close it had been — how he might have _stayed_ lost, without Alec pushing Q and going off-mission to find Bond.

“I’m not adding him to the contract, and you’re under no obligation to do what he says,” Bond said with a relieved chuckle. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to find someone from the Marketplace, too. But together, the three of us have something that may be impossible to replicate.” He made a thoughtful sound, scratching lightly at Q’s nape, under the collar and tie. Then he sighed and tugged at the tie. “Get undressed and in the shower. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, James,” he said, feeling an irrational hint of nervousness as Bond left the ensuite, closing the door to hold in the steam. After being apart for so long, Q was distinctly uncomfortable at letting Bond out of his sight. Wishing the sound of the shower didn’t drown out everything else in the flat, he stripped quickly and folded everything into a neat pile on the counter, along with his glasses. Then he got into the shower, turning to let it run over his back for a minute before he started washing his hair, wanting to get that out of the way.

Bond was gone for short minutes, and he slipped into the shower silently. “I haven’t had a decent shower in what feels like ages,” he said with a soft sigh. But when Q picked up the soap, Bond eyed it for a moment before reaching out to take it from Q’s hand. He didn’t look at Q, but down at the soap, hesitating before lathering it up in his hands. “You first.”

 _No touching_ , Q reminded himself, and turned away, leaning forward to rest his hands against the shower wall. It wasn’t disrespectful, as it might have been with someone else; with Bond, it was a sign of trust, that Q didn’t need to watch him for an unexpected attack. It always had been precisely the surrender that Bond needed to see, to reassure himself not of his dominance but of Q’s trust.

“I told Mallory — Oh. Mallory’s the interim director, until they can decide on a permanent” — Q hesitated, not wanting to use the word ‘replacement’ — “head of MI6. Tanner expects that Mallory will be confirmed, though.”

Bond hummed in acknowledgement, hands moving incredibly slowly over Q’s back — not so much washing as caressing. The motions were almost meditative, as if Bond couldn’t get enough of the feel of Q’s skin. He dragged his hands up and down, sighing. “Told him what?” he asked lazily.

God, Bond was _distracting_. It had been too long since Q had felt anything but the most distant of touches. Alec had lived at the flat for months now, but they’d both been so careful. Only on the worst of nights did Q’s sleeping mind seek solace, and he sometimes woke up curled against Alec or in his arms — both of them always clothed. It took Q a moment to remember what he’d been saying. “I told him I was taking three days off. I’ve barely had six hours away from my desk since Alec brought you back. He didn’t argue.”

“Three days. That’s good. Not very long, but it’s a start,” he said. He flinched violently, hands digging into Q’s shoulders for a painful moment, at the sound of the bathroom door opening, but then he relaxed, apparently identifying Alec as the intruder. “Mallory is a pushover, and he doesn’t like me anyway. I doubt I’ll have to go anywhere for a while.”

Q looked out at Alec. “Danielle is overseeing the new R&D labs, and TJ is supervising the network implementation team. I did tell them that they’re permitted to contact me if there’s a question or emergency, but no one else,” he said, watching the way Alec remained at the far end of the room, as though considering changing his mind.

“You put _TJ_ in charge?” Bond asked incredulously. “My, how things have changed,” he said with a shake of his head.

“He’s doing much better,” Q said, twisting to look back at Bond. He tipped his head in Alec’s direction in silent question.

Bond nodded and stepped away from Q to start washing himself. Wishing he had the freedom to touch Bond, even a reassuring brush of his hand, Q carefully slipped into the water to rinse off most of the soap. Then he stepped out of the shower and crossed the bathroom to where Alec was still standing.

Alec had removed the heavy camouflage shirt and the belt with its holster and pouches. Q tugged his T-shirt free of his waistband. Alec hesitated only briefly before he lifted his arms and ducked, allowing Q to pull the shirt off. Q put it aside and turned back, reaching for the button-flies.

“I can do this,” Alec said.

Q looked up and met his eyes, reading the uncharacteristic uncertainty there. Hiding his sigh, he realised that again this was one way the Marketplace was definitely superior to the outside world. In the Marketplace, there was no reason not to be honest with desire.

So he fell back on formality and didn’t let go of the waistband. “Please, sir. Let me,” he said, and started undoing the buttons without waiting for a response.

After a moment, Bond picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. “How is TJ ‘doing better’? As in, he’s finally done with the grovelling worship, or you’ve channelled it into something useful? Is he your minion now?”

“I spent four straight days yelling at everyone. They’re terrified of me,” Q said over his shoulder. Just as he’d planned, Alec let out a laugh and relaxed. Q turned back, smiling slightly as he met Alec’s eyes. “Including every Double O  to whom I issued kit,” he added as he went to his knees, taking down Alec’s trousers. Then he reached back up for his pants, and hid a smirk at the evidence of Alec’s interest. He was definitely more relaxed — or at least no longer uncertain.

“After all this time learning how to get me and Alec to do what you tell us to, I’m not surprised in the least,” Bond said with amusement. “At least it came in useful for you. Though I bet Danielle has been generous with her tutelage. The Double O’s are a good lot to have afraid of you. Means they respect you.”

“Someone published my marksmanship scores,” Q said innocently as he stripped off the rest of Alec’s clothes.

Alec grinned suddenly, and stroked his hand over Q’s wet hair. “I got him started on a nine mil,” he said to Bond. “He found a laser sight. Bloody terrifying natural talent with it.” He stepped past Q, much more relaxed, and headed for the shower.

“Now I know what to get him for Christmas, then,” Bond said, watching Alec thoughtfully.

Q turned his attention to gathering up Alec’s clothes, listening as the shower door opened and closed. “I can’t stand helicopters,” Alec complained with a sigh. “Why didn’t we steal a bloody jet to come back?” A glance showed that Bond had ceded the water to Alec, who had his head tipped back under the spray. Wanting to get back in there, Q piled the clothes with the others.

“Because we were too tired,” Bond said. He started rubbing the soap over Alec’s shoulders in careless circles. When Q stepped into the shower, he handed the soap over.

Q let out a snort and looked at both men, and a tiny, greedy voice in the back of his mind crowed in triumph that he was here with them and not somewhere far more boring. He couldn’t even breathe without wonderful, hot touches that made him shiver, and when practicality made him turn to continue helping wash Alec’s back, he was able to offer his back invitingly to Bond once more.

“I have a brilliant idea,” Alec said quietly, his voice muffled by the way he’d let his head hang down between his arms. The shower spray hit his shoulders and filled the air with steam and cool droplets.

Bond hummed and wrapped his arms around Q’s waist, holding him close without restricting his movements. He rested his head against Q’s shoulder. “You’re awake enough to be brilliant? I’m jealous.”

“That’s my point. We tell Mallory we’ve gone... I don’t know. To Malaga or something. Then we hide out here. He’ll never find us.”

Q sighed somewhat exaggeratedly. “You do remember _I’m_ here, don’t you?” he challenged, surprised at how much he was enjoying the thought of submitting to Bond — and, yes, to Alec — while threatening them both with written reprimands at the office.

Bond laughed, then reached out to grab Q’s wrists. He pushed Q into Alec’s body, and pinned Q’s hands to the shower wall. “Go ahead and try to convince us you have no personal interest in keeping us here, free of the threat of summons, whatsoever.”

Q bit down on a desperate little sound. _Seven months_ , he thought, struggling not to push his hips back against Bond’s. Alec stood two inches taller, and the feel of Alec’s legs against his cock set off sparks behind his closed eyelids.

Then Alec turned, careful not to break Bond’s hold of Q’s wrists. “Well that was a fucking inefficient shower,” he said, dragging his fingers through Q’s hair before his fist clenched. This time, Q couldn’t hide his reaction as Alec pulled back, until his hand was trapped between Q’s hair and Bond’s shoulder. Then he kissed Q.

Bond let out a slow breath, pressing against Q. “God I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, bending his head forward to kiss Q’s shoulder. He released his grip on Q’s wrists and slid his hands slowly up Q’s arms, but stopped at his elbows. After a moment’s hesitation, he put one hand on Q’s waist, and the other over Alec’s in Q’s hair.

Alec’s grip relaxed, and he lifted his head. Then another sharp tug forced Q to twist, and he opened his eyes against the shower spray for a moment. “James,” he whispered pleadingly, pressing his fingers into the shower wall.

“Fuck,” Bond hissed. “I don’t know that I’m entirely conscious enough to continue this in the shower,” he muttered. Then he lifted his head to look at Alec, and stepped back. “I’ll meet you in bed,” he said with a sound that was clearly meant to be a laugh. Then he gingerly stepped out of the shower.

Q looked at Alec, who nodded and picked up the shampoo. With a silent touch to convey his gratitude for Alec’s understanding, Q got under the water and quickly rinsed off again so he could follow Bond.

He wanted to take the towel and dry Bond off, but even that might be forbidden. Instead, he started to dry himself off and asked, “Do you need me to get out the first aid kit, James?”

“No,” Bond said, drying himself perfunctorily. “I didn’t even get shot or stabbed this time. Aren’t you impressed? You should finish helping Alec,” he added before moving to the bed.

Q threw Alec an apologetic look as Bond hung the towel. “Will you let me help you, James?” he asked, trying not to push. Bond really did look ready to collapse on the spot, drawn with exhaustion and grief.

Bond looked down at Q’s hands and smiled sadly. He turned towards the bed and gestured towards it. “Let’s lie down for a minute,” he said, watching Q, not moving.

Q abandoned his towel, hanging it on the rack, and went to the bedroom. He’d made the bed that morning, as he always did. Now, he climbed up onto the mattress, on top of the duvet, and settled down in the centre of the bed. Then he turned, watching Bond, and he reached up to the headboard, to take hold of the bars.

Relief flickered over Bond’s face, there and gone almost too quickly for Q to see. Bond exhaled, long and low, and climbed onto the bed next to him, wrapping himself around Q without any hesitation. In a painfully familiar gesture, he pressed his ear to Q’s chest, just over his heart.

Q’s hands clenched, and he closed his eyes, wanting to put an arm around Bond or to stroke his hair. But instead of moving, he concentrated on trying to calm himself. “Are you in pain? Do you want to sleep?”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Bond said gruffly from where he was curled around Q. He took a deep breath, then turned his head towards the bathroom door.  “Hurry up, Alec!” he shouted.

So he _did_ want sex — or at least something more than this. Selfishly, Q couldn’t help but feel relieved. Trying not to betray how very much he needed Bond, he focused instead on practical matters. “James... I’ve already said yes to you. For the contract. We don’t need to use condoms.”

Bond raised his eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

A bit apprehensive at the memory of Bond’s possessive nature, Q asked, “Is he — Do you want _him_ to use one?”

Bond’s expression turned surprised, then thoughtful. He frowned a little and reached up to stroke a hand down Q’s arm, nails leaving tiny welts. “While I was gone...” he started, then stopped. “He was there for you.”

“For _us_ ,” Q said, shivering. The sensation of Bond’s nails spread from his wrists up through the rest of his body. “He never questioned — he never gave up. He went off-mission to find you.”

“He can give you something that I can’t,” Bond said quietly. He moved from drawing lines on Q’s arm to his collarbone.

Q froze under Bond’s touch. Alec was dominant and uncompromising — everything Q had wanted in an owner — but that knowledge didn’t make him love Bond any less. “James,” he said, holding tightly to the headboard. “It’s not — I love _you_.”

“I know.” Bond turned his head and buried his nose in Q’s neck, breathing harder than he had been earlier. “He can wear a condom tonight.” He reached from Q’s collarbones to press lightly on Q’s throat. “For now.”

So this was temporary, or at least not a part of the contract. Q was glad he hadn’t binned them all during a half-asleep cleaning spree. “You didn’t eat dinner. Should I bring you something?”

“Don’t leave,” Bond said, tightening his grip on Q’s body pre-emptively. He shifted up the bed so he could kiss Q for long, lazy moments.

Q struggled to stay silent, not wanting Bond to feel even a hint of pressure to do more, but the kiss still left him breathless and tingling. It took long moments for him to remember what he’d been trying to ask earlier. “I’m sorry, James. Half your dinner is in the oven or on the counter. Let me bring you something, or at least put it away, before it catches fire.”

“In a minute,” Bond pleaded quietly. “I’ve missed you. I haven’t touched anyone except to hurt them in months. Over half a year.” He shifted, pressing his body as close to Q’s as possible. “Let it burn.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Q whispered, moving just slightly. His fingers ached with the strain of holding tightly to the headboard. “How can I show you, James? What can I give you or do for you?”

Bond didn’t say anything for long moments as he clutched Q’s body tightly. Finally, he relaxed, loosening his grip. “All right,” he said almost too quietly for Q to hear. He buried his nose in Q’s hair, then backed off slightly, only to reach up and tug Q’s hands free from the headboard. He rolled flat on his back and guided Q’s hands down to his shoulders. “Touch me.”

Carefully, Q followed Bond’s movements, until he was kneeling up beside Bond so he could touch with only his hands. He watched the signs of strain in Bond’s eyes and body, wondering what he needed.

He moved his hands slowly, never lifting them from Bond’s damp, cool skin. He traced down too-prominent collarbones and over his sternum, trying to avoid the fine pink lines of new scars. Bond shivered and groaned, though the usual signs of arousal were completely absent. He didn’t roll his hips up or shift against Q’s hands, but held completely still, breath coming in sharp, ragged pants.

Q hesitated, nearly pulling his hands back, worried that he was doing more harm than good. He threw a desperate look at the bathroom door, but the shower was still running; Alec would be no help. Not yet. More tentatively, Q moved his hands further down to Bond’s abdomen, tensed and ready to pull back.

Bond gripped the sheets tightly, and then let go and grabbed Q’s shoulders. “Wait,” he said, holding Q still.

They’d only seen each other three times in the last seven months: after Bond’s rescue, when Q had sent him off to Singapore, and then when Bond had come back with Silva, just days ago. Not once had they had any privacy or even more than ten minutes together.

Q thought back to how Bond hadn’t even hinted at wanting him in the shower the way he had in the foyer. The way he did once Alec had joined him. Was that it? Did he _need_ Alec with them?

Q went cold inside as he wondered exactly what had happened to Bond during the three months he’d been held captive.

Bond held Q still for several deep breaths, then tugged at the duvet. “Here. Let’s move this before it’s soaked,” he said quietly, looking not at Q’s eyes but at his hair, which was still dripping wet.

Struggling to hide his worry, Q folded the blanket down into a neat pile at the foot of the bed. Bond shuffled up to sit against the headboard, and beckoned for Q to sit with him, leaning back against Bond’s chest. Q kept his hands on his own legs and tried to find a sense of calm. Bond didn’t need him panicked, imagining horrors that had happened in the past, and he certainly had no right to feel disappointed that Bond didn’t want more after all.

Bond held him close, stroking slow lines up and down Q’s arms, and turned to kiss Q’s neck. “It’s been too many months without being touched in any way that doesn’t end with pain. I just need to reacclimatise,” he said. He shrugged. “It happens sometimes, after long-term interrogations.”

Suppressing a shudder, Q asked, “How can I help? Or should I get Alec?”

“You are helping,” Bond said, tightening his grip. “Alec will be here in a minute.” He stopped petting and leaned just far enough over Q’s shoulder to kiss his mouth.

Q returned the kiss eagerly, though he restrained himself from reaching for Bond’s neck or hair. He didn’t want even the slightest perception that he was making demands or attempting to control what Bond could or couldn’t do. And that thought sparked an idea — one that felt logical, though he had no idea if it would work.

“Would you like to use the cuffs on me?” he offered when the kiss ended.

Bond curled around Q again — arms wrapped around Q’s shoulders, face pressed to his neck, spine arched from the angle. “I... don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe if it were just us two. But with Alec, I’m not sure it would work.”

“Alec won’t touch either of us, unless it’s what you want,” Q said, certain of that. “He knows I belong to you. He never tried anything you wouldn’t permit. He won’t do anything to me without your permission.”

“I know,” Bond said. “And he knows... this isn’t something new for either of us. He’s going to take care of you, while you take care of me,” he said, looking towards the bathroom door again. “Believe it or not, Psych has pamphlets on this sort of phenomena for the partners of field agents. I should have told you to read some.”

Q couldn’t hide the derisive huff that came out at the thought of Psych. He’d managed to avoid their examinations so far, though he knew that immunity wouldn’t last. Once the final crisis had been solved, he’d have to talk to _someone_ — damn the interference of mandatory post-tragedy counselling. If anyone in Psych caught a hint of what Q really was — what he wanted to be — Q would be out of MI6 before Mallory could protest. Though... as he considered it, tipping his head to give Bond better access to his throat, he realised he might be able to arrange a session with one of the Marketplace’s counsellors. That could satisfy the regulations and help maintain privacy.

“Let me go get Alec, please,” he offered, all too aware that there was only so much that he could take before his self-control broke. The last thing Bond needed was the pressure of Q begging him for anything. Another owner might be amused, but to Bond, it would be an obligation. A burden. Which was exactly what Q _didn’t_ want to be.

Bond sighed but loosened his grip and leaned against the headboard. “All right. You might want to turn off the oven and put food away first, unless you want to leave it until morning. Once you’re back in bed, I won’t let you out again.”

Q got out of the bed and went right for the door. He’d put away the food, get drinks for Bond and Alec — they could both use the help relaxing — and then see what he could do about helping Bond recover.


	23. Chapter 23

**Monday, 12 November 2012**

Alec came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another one. He met Bond’s eyes only briefly before glancing around the room, then at the blankets, clearly searching for a Q-sized lump hidden underneath.

“If you sent him away to spare him your current mood, I’m going to have to hit you,” Alec threatened tiredly as he circled around the bed to the armchair near the window, clearly giving Bond space.

“God no,” Bond said with a shrug. “He wanted to turn off the oven and put away dinner. I told him it was the last time I’d let him up, so who knows what else he’s doing.”

Alec sat down and tossed the towel over the corner of the chair. “And you’re not already fucking his brains out after all these months because... you’re feeling romantic? Or did that bastard Silva...” He trailed off significantly.

“No, but you remember what it’s like after you’ve been under the knife for too long. Just sitting back and closing your eyes doesn’t really work.”

Alec stared at him, knowing all too well what he was going through. Then he got up and circled around to Bond’s side of the bed to rifle through the drawer. There were two guns there now, Bond noted — his own 9mm subcompact and the .380 revolver that Alec wore in an ankle holster when necessary. The cigarettes Alec took out weren’t Bond’s preferred brand.

The final hunt for Silva had taken up every spare minute of Bond’s time since his rescue-escape. He and Alec had restricted their conversations to business or the sort of insignificant trivia brought on by the almost hysterical relief of a mission’s end. Bond knew that Alec had been living here with Q, and that they hadn’t crossed the line between friends and lovers, but this was the first evidence he’d seen that Alec had been sleeping in their bed — almost definitely with Q, because this was as much Q’s bed as it was Bond’s. He searched inside himself for any sort of jealousy, but all he found was relief that Q hadn’t been alone.

Alec sat down on the edge of the bed, shook a cigarette out of the pack for himself, and then tossed the box to Bond. As he rifled through the drawer, he asked, “Anything in particular you want me to do? Or _don’t_ want me to do?”

“No,” Bond said, picking up the box of cigarettes. “I just need you to make him feel good so I don’t have to worry about it. And having you at his back... I need that.” He looked up at Alec with a sad smile. “And this will be the first time I’ve slept beside anyone since being home. If I have nightmares...”

Alec finally pulled a lighter from the drawer. He lit his cigarette, then held the flame up for Bond to do the same. He dropped his voice, turning his head at the sound of cupboard doors closing in the kitchen. “He’s waited a long fucking time for this, James. No pressure, but...” He shrugged and blew out smoke.

“No pressure,” Bond quietly laughed, looking at Alec disbelievingly. “It’ll be fine. You fuck him; I’ll make sure he gets off. Then we’ll all fall asleep, and it will be better in the morning.”

With a sharp, derisive laugh, Alec asked, “When the _fuck_ has it ever been better in the morning? Name one fucking time that’s actually worked.”

“I need you here. Not just because of him,” he said quietly before looking away. “We’re the last of her orphans now, you know.”

“If you’re going to get maudlin, I’m back to threatening to hit you.” Alec sat back on the bed and put one heel up on the metal frame. “Nothing happened on that island?”

“No,” Bond said. “The bastard was having too much fun carving me up to have any interest in anything else.”

Alec glanced back over his shoulder, eyes dropping to Bond’s chest before returning to study his face. “He needs you, you know,” he said softly. “He’s rubbish at taking care of himself. Like he lives on the radiation from his bloody computer monitor and endless cups of tea. If he’s not taking care of someone else, he won’t take care of himself.”

Bond nodded. “I know.” Then he looked up at Alec and grinned. “He loves me.”

“And if you turn into a teenager —”

Alec’s threat was cut off by Q’s return. He opened the bedroom door, disappeared long enough to pick up a tray, and then set the tray down on the dresser to quietly close the door, rather than kicking it shut. Then he picked up the tray again and brought it to the bed. Whiskey for Bond, vodka for Alec, and a plate of naan bread and dip, probably because Q didn’t trust Bond and Alec to determine if they were hungry or not. He knew them too well.

He unfolded the legs of the tray, set it on the foot of the bed, and then brought them their drinks. Then, without a word, he left the room again.

Alec shot Bond a look. Then he leaned over, picked up a piece of the bread, and scooped it through the dip. “Feel free to encourage him to walk around naked all you like,” he said casually before taking a bite of the bread.

Bond didn’t hesitate to drink, but didn’t touch the food yet, wondering what Q was up to. The bread smelled good, but Bond hadn’t eaten regularly in months and was still getting used to it again, letting his stomach re-acclimate itself to meals that were larger than a fistful. “If he takes too long, I’m going to fall asleep,” he complained without any actual concern.

“I’d defy even you to stay asleep through what he’s going to want — assuming he doesn’t go all noble and self-sacrificing and refuse until you’re awake,” Alec added, levelling a threatening glare Bond’s way.

“No,” Bond said, watching as Q reappeared silently. “I won’t let him get away with that,” he said with a smirk, loud enough for Q to hear as he brought them an ashtray from the living room. “I’m still debating the merits of cuffs.”

Even after all this time, Bond remembered the little tells that betrayed Q’s interest. Q didn’t say anything as he circled around the bed to set the ashtray in easy reach of Bond, so he wouldn’t have to lean over to the one on the bedside table.

“That sounds like a proper start,” Alec said. “Go get them.”

Q shifted his weight but didn’t otherwise move, except to look to Bond.

Bond watched the flicker of Q’s expression, the slight blush at the tips of his ears that showed he was interested. Bond nodded.

Instead of going for Bond’s bedside table, Q went to the wardrobe. Alec ate another couple of bites of the bread before he asked, “You going to starve yourself?”

“Not hungry,” Bond dismissed, watching Q. He took another drink of whiskey, though, feeling the soothing burn make its way down his throat to his stomach. That was another side-effect of being held captive for so long, he thought. One’s alcohol tolerance went completely out the window. He set the half-full glass on the bedside table, not wanting to drink himself to sleep.

Apparently, Q had stored the cuffs and the rope Bond had used on him a couple of times since replacing his collar. He came back out with the cuffs, closed the wardrobe door, and brought the cuffs to Alec. After putting his drink on the bedside table, Alec took the cuffs and gestured at the tray, which Q moved back to the dresser.

When Q returned, Bond saw Alec gesture Q down to his knees using the same hand signal he’d developed. Alec put out his cigarette and held one of the leather cuffs flat. Q set his right wrist against the cuff. When Alec pulled it tight and buckled it closed, Bond saw the faint tremor that passed through Q. Alec opened the second cuff, and Q switched hands. He shivered again when Alec closed the cuff. When Alec let go, Q put his hands behind his back, waiting patiently, his interest betrayed only by the fast, light breaths he took.

Bond straightened again from his slouch at the headboard. He put out his cigarette and moved the ashtray to the bedside table. “Up here,” he said, gesturing for Q to lie down beside him. Bond watched him get fluidly to his feet with all the grace of a dancer, and he smiled at the thought of taking him out dancing again soon.

The force of how much he’d missed Q hit him in a sudden wave of need — seven months since he’d danced with Q, sparred with Q, tried not to set the kitchen on fire with Q. Part of the damage of being under Silva’s control for so long was being deprived of not just affectionate touch, but also his new normal where he could expect more than just a lonely ache when he went to bed at night.

On the other side of it was the conviction that he could have it back when he finally made it home. It was like a thin but strong line keeping him tethered to sanity. He’d never understood the soldiers who’d kept pictures of girlfriends and wives in their pockets, saying they needed the reminders of what they were coming home to; military divorce statistics rarely painted a pretty picture of an idyllic lifestyle. But now, he understood.

Bond’s breath caught as Q moved onto the bed, and he let out a sigh of appreciation as Q settled on his back, allowing Bond to move him to the centre of the bed. Bond lay down beside him, and turned Q to face him.

Immediately, Q inched closer, meeting Bond’s eyes with no fear — only trust and what Bond now knew was love, not merely affection. Alec moved behind Q, propped up on one elbow to look down at him with obvious interest. He put a hand on Q’s hip and held him steady as he ducked his head and bit Q’s shoulder.

Q gasped, eyes closing.

With Alec giving Q the roughness that he craved, Bond didn’t feel guilty at all about focusing on what he himself wanted — long, slow sweeps of his hand up and down Q’s side, gentle caresses to his jaw, light petting through his hair. Bond indulged shamelessly, touching without hesitation, letting himself learn Q’s body all over again. He tolerated Q’s eyes being closed for now because he was relatively certain that Q wasn’t paying any attention to what Bond was doing; he was probably far too focused on Alec’s harsher treatment to even notice. But Bond was fine with that.

Alec slid a hand down Q’s arm and took hold of the metal ring on the cuff. He pulled Q’s wrist back, forcing Q to shift and arch his back. A nudge shoved Q against Bond’s body, and he immediately nuzzled against Bond’s shoulder, pressing kisses between affectionate brushes of his cheek. A vision of Silva towering over him made Bond jerk back, breathing hard.

Startled, Q pulled back as well, pressing against Alec’s body. Alec looked up over Q’s shoulder; his expression turned uncertain, and he asked, “James?”

Bond pulled away, trying to push the image aside. “It’s fine. Keep going.”

He didn’t see what Alec did, but Q let out a sudden gasp, arching his back as his eyes fell shut. He bit his lip and writhed in Alec’s grasp. “Please,” he whispered.

“I’ve got you,” Bond couldn’t help but whisper as he steadied him, wrapping his hands around Q’s sharp hips, watching him intently.

Q’s eyes opened at Bond’s words. He looked unfocused, a little dazed, but he nodded. Very quietly, he said, “I’m yours, James.”

Alec used a carabiner to lock the cuffs together behind Q’s back. Then he looked over Q’s shoulder, meeting Bond’s eyes. “How much of a rush are we in?” he asked, a very faint, wicked smile tugging at his mouth.

“None whatsoever,” Bond said, not looking at Alec but staying focused on Q. He moved his free hand back to Q’s face and swept his thumb up and down his cheekbone. He was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to come tonight, but the longer they stayed together like this, the better chance he had. Which, of course, Alec knew.

“Good.” Alec threaded his fingers into Q’s hair and pulled back sharply as he hooked one foot over Q’s leg, rolling him halfway onto his back. He braced Q with his free hand on Q’s hip and said, “All yours, then.”

Bond looked at Alec, surprised, before staring down at Q’s body, completely unable to resist the temptation of all that beautiful, pale, exquisitely unmarked skin. _Ten minutes_ , he told himself, rolling to get in a better position over Q. Five minutes if Q started to show obvious signs of boredom or disinterest.

He started at Q’s hairline, nuzzling his still damp hair, tracing the edges of Q’s face with his own. A light touch of lips at the corner of Q’s eyebrow, a rasp of stubble over his jaw, a feather-soft caress of his nose over Q’s ear. To his surprise, Q let out a quiet, needy whimper and strained against Alec’s hold to try, futilely, to return Bond’s affectionate touches.

With an amused huff, Alec said, “Try all you want. You’re not getting free.”

Bond was almost tempted to argue, to tell Alec to let Q go, so he could do as he pleased, but immediately bit it back. Bond needed the freedom to touch without having to worry about the unavoidable tension of being touched in return, and Alec knew it. Equally importantly, it would keep Q in that pleasant, submissive space where he wouldn’t get bored with Bond’s need for gentleness.

When he was done with Q’s face, ending with the softest of kisses, he moved down to Q’s chest. A bite to the collarbone would have been his typical approach, but Bond couldn’t bring himself to do more than run his hands over the sharp jut of Q’s bones. He didn’t bother with teeth or nails, choosing instead to focus on cataloguing every bit of input he could from the sensitive tips of his fingers. For as much as Bond’s body had changed over the last several months, Q’s hadn’t. As he ran his hands down Q’s chest to his stomach, Bond found that thought deeply comforting.

Q shifted, pressing against Bond’s hands, though Alec kept him almost immobile. The most Q could do was brush one foot against Bond’s which, to Bond’s own surprise, didn’t trigger a reaction. Q panted and occasionally whimpered, not in pain but in desperate pleasure. And it was genuine. Q wasn’t bored. He was aroused, his erection probably painful after this long.

But for Bond, this wasn’t sexual. He needed this exploration desperately, but as he expected, he wasn’t able to respond with his own erection. There was nothing in the world for him right now but Q’s body and Alec’s underneath him; his own arousal would have detracted from that.

Though he felt slightly guilty for bypassing Q’s cock altogether, Bond spent long minutes caressing the silk-fine skin over Q’s abdomen, hips, and thighs. He dragged his hands down the insides of Q’s legs, the warm flesh draining of colour when he pressed hard enough, before landing at Q’s knees. Then he moved farther down the bed to press open-mouthed kisses over the skin just under the kneecap.

Q moaned and struggled against Alec’s hold. In answer, Alec pulled him further onto his back and pinned his legs more securely, giving Bond unrestricted access to touch Q as he liked. “I assume there’s lube in your bedside table drawer?” Alec asked Q.

Q’s breath caught. He nodded, damp hair rustling on the pillow. “Yes, sir.”

“Whenever you get a chance, James... No rush,” Alec said. “It’s still early.”

In an uncharacteristic sign of intimacy and gratitude, Bond left Q’s leg long enough to press a light kiss to Alec’s knee. Alec looked down at him with a caring expression that no one else alive had probably ever seen. He moved his hand from Q’s hip to brush against Bond’s hair before his fingers came to rest on Q’s leg.

Warmth filtered through Bond, and he felt some of his hyperawareness, his oversensitivity, his need to keep track of every touch to his body start to ease. He wasn’t ready for more yet — he needed more time — but here with Alec and Q he started to feel safe again.

Bond finished his downward journey over Q’s shin, kissed his ankle, and rolled off the bed. He retrieved the lube and a condom from the bedside table and pressed them into Alec’s hand. Then he crawled back onto the bed to start from Q’s other ankle and work his way back up.

Distantly, he heard the sound of tearing plastic and the click of the bottle cap. Then Q shifted onto his side and moaned, though he kept his leg still for Bond, as if, despite everything Alec was doing, he was focused on Bond’s touch.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Alec said tersely as his arm circled around Q’s body, holding him close.

With a contented smile, Bond sighed against Q’s leg and stopped moving. He breathed slowly, feeling Q’s full-body tremble with his fingertips and mouth. Finally, when Q’s breaths started to take on an edge of desperation, Bond slid up and covered Alec’s hands with his own, helping to hold Q for him.

Alec was in no rush. He moved in a way Bond had never seen — a way Bond didn’t _know_ , because he’d never been with Alec outside of those dark, desperate moments when one or both of them was on the edge of a cliff. This was Alec as a lover, not a deadly, broken assassin.

Q’s gasps and moans grew more desperate, and that, Bond did recognise. He fought to move, to buck his hips back against Alec, but Alec’s fingers closed on Bond’s, and together, they held Q still for Alec’s slow, strong thrusts.

Bond couldn’t stop touching Q. He didn’t target sensitive spots, wanting to draw this out as long as possible. He counted Q’s ribs with his tongue and searched for every freckle and mole on Q’s chest that he could remember from seven months ago. Then he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Q’s chest, feeling the frantic heartbeat underneath.

He turned his head, resting his cheek on Q’s skin. “Tell me when,” he told Alec quietly.

“A bit longer, I think I can manage,” Alec said a bit incoherently. He nuzzled into Q’s hair and murmured, “You’re fucking _incredible_ , Q.”

Instead of the practised, formulaic response Bond might have expected, Q just whispered, “Please, sir. Oh, god, please.”

Suddenly, the fact that Bond hadn’t kissed Q since Alec started fucking him seemed utterly inexcusable. Shifting his weight so he wouldn’t accidentally tease Q’s cock with pressure, Bond lifted up off his knees and bent over Q. He looked stunning, eyes closed, face flushed, hair in disarray, and Bond couldn’t help but tell him that. Then he leaned in for a kiss that was slow and deep and sensual to match Alec’s thrusts.

Alec growled and lifted his head enough to meet Bond’s eyes, and Bond knew that ‘slow and sensual’ was quickly crumbling. But Alec waited, raising a brow in silent question as though asking if Bond was ready for more.

Bond didn’t want it to end. Logically he knew that they had three days — plenty of time and opportunity to repeat this as often as they were physically capable. Hell, this might be even nicer for Bond once Q was completely sated and pliant, boneless under Bond’s mouth and hands. But this was their first night back together in seven months, and Bond wanted the night to last as long as possible.

Alec and Q needed more, though, and their needs won out over Bond’s irrational desire to trap them all here, like this, indefinitely. So he nodded at Alec and started to make his way back down Q’s body to nuzzle at his cock.

Q gasped. He thrust forward against their joined hands, barely a centimetre, and his begging turned even more desperate. Alec swore, slipping into Russian, and thrust hard into Q’s body, forcing Bond to brace Q’s hip even more.

It was a quick decision to not bother with teasing — both Alec and Q were already too close — so he only licked a line up Q’s cock in warning before swallowing him down. It had been years since he’d enjoyed this particular act without a condom, and it was hard to resist the temptation to go slow, to take his time and explore. Though Alec’s thrusts and Q’s desperate motions made it easier to continue with tight, firm pressure, Bond couldn’t resist pulling back every few strokes just to explore Q’s texture with his tongue.

“James!” Q cried, hips bucking forward hard enough to make Bond cough in surprise. “James, please —”

Alec cut him off with a sharp thrust that made Q cry out. “Hold still for him, Q,” Alec ordered, his voice tense. He let go to tangle his hand in Q’s hair and pushed, demanding, “Look at him. Watch him, Q.”

Bond looked at Alec with surprise, not just because Alec knew him so well, but because he himself hadn’t realised how much he needed to see Q’s eyes — to see trust and affection and lust, all without fear or malice. Another layer of tension evaporated.

Then, as Q stared down the length of his body at Bond, Alec thrust into him, hard and fast. Bond captured and held Q’s gaze greedily, not wanting to miss anything. He bent back down to start giving Q pleasure again, but kept his eyes up to watch Q’s face, memorising every last reaction. He felt the beginnings of Q’s orgasm before any hint showed in his face, and he backed off so he could watch Q’s expression. He pushed up the bed and wrapped his hand around Q’s cock. A nod started Alec moving again. Bond quickly found just the right rhythm, and together, they pushed Q over the edge.


	24. Chapter 24

**Tuesday, 13 November 2012**

Bond felt the mattress dip and shake underneath him and went from restlessly sleeping to fully alert in less than a second. He didn’t move at first, waiting until his other senses kicked in to give him a better picture of what was going on around him — moving without enough information about what to expect when he opened his eyes could get him killed or worse.

It took him an unforgivably long time — over ten seconds — to remember where he was. The soft bed. The warmth that radiated from the spot on the mattress where someone else had just been sleeping. The hum of central heating. The smell of an old but well-maintained urban flat.

 _Home_.

It took long seconds to convince his body that he was safe, consciously focusing on individual muscle groups to tense and relax each one.

He listened to the soft creak of the floor and opened his eyes to the sight of Q, naked, moving around the bedroom. Q’s pale skin seemed to glow in the bright morning sun. Remembering last night, Bond turned to see Alec lying on the far side of the bed, where Q usually slept. He’d been watching Q, though the quiet rustle of Bond’s hair on the pillow made him glance at Bond before looking uncomfortably away.

Without looking back, Q slipped into the ensuite and closed the door. Bond heard the soft click as the light switched on.

Then Alec turned back, giving Bond a somewhat wary, carefully neutral look. “You all right?” he asked quietly.

Bond flashed back to the night before, when he’d kissed Alec on the knee and got a rare, genuine expression of affection in return. He wanted to reach out and touch Alec, to reassure himself that last night was real and still bridged the gap between them, but he didn’t know how Alec would respond. So he kept still and gave Alec a warm, wry smile. “Better than I have been in a while.”

Alec nodded, turning to look back up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and stretched, then turned to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to pull the blankets away. “You’re not going in today to file an AAR or speak to Psych, are you?”

“Fuck no,” Bond grumbled, sitting up as well. He leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes for a moment as he let the headrush take him. He should have eaten something last night, he knew, but this morning was a better time for it. He opened his eyes and leaned towards the bedside table, only to have to stop and brace himself against it for a moment as the world spun slightly. He would _definitely_ need to eat something soon, he decided as the world righted itself. But for now, he simply pulled open the drawer and took out Alec’s cigarettes and lighter.

Alec reached back and took the cigarettes away. “Not before breakfast.” He opened the drawer of Q’s bedside table, dropped them on top of Q’s nest of charging cables, and shoved the drawer closed. “You look like shit as it is. Medical won’t let you out for weeks if they see you like that.”

Bond knew he should argue, should make some sort of crack at Alec’s words. But he just wasn’t there yet. Instead, he hummed his affirmation, pathetic as it was, and leaned against the headboard. “Is Jack still at the bakery down the road? He’ll deliver for ten pounds.”

“No idea. Q —” Alec cut off, shooting Bond a quick look before the ensuite door opened.

Q came out, now wearing a dressing gown. He looked at both of them, and then told Bond, “Back to bed, James.”

Once again, Bond thought about arguing, but decided it took far more energy than he was capable of extending at the moment. He shifted to lay back down on the bed, punching the pillow a few times before he settled on his back. “I’m fine,” he lied out of habit, though he knew that both Q and Alec knew better.

Q walked over to Bond’s side of the bed. He leaned down a bit before he stopped himself, resting his hands on the duvet rather than touching Bond. “You need rest, James. Just for a few days, please.”

Bond watched the aborted touch, feeling simultaneously guilty and relieved. It was ridiculous, this flinch reflex that he couldn’t tamp down even under the touch of the people he cared most about, trusted most of all, and yet... He sighed and nodded. “Would you lie down next to me for a few moments?”

“You need breakfast,” Q said, though he didn’t move away. He lifted the blanket and waited for Bond to make room. Once Bond moved to the centre of the bed, Q slipped out of the dressing gown and left it draped on the corner of the bed before he got under the blanket. The other side of the bed dipped and shifted as Alec got out, silently walking to the ensuite.

Bond listened to Alec’s exit with some wariness; there was a new dynamic here that went beyond what they’d shared so far. But it had been so long, and Bond had no idea what sort of relationship Q and Alec had now. It wasn’t sexual, but that was only the smallest part of how close they’d become.

He couldn’t think about it now, though. For now, he just needed to relax and find his between-mission self again. So he pushed Q onto his back and rested his ear over Q’s heart. The steady beat immediately calmed him, and he sighed in relief and wrapped one arm around Q’s waist. “Thank you.”

Q got his hands comfortably settled under his head, relaxed and calm. “Are you in pain? Do you need me to get you anything before breakfast?” he asked softly.

His first instinct was to ask for something to ease the lingering pains of being held by Silva, the new wounds from what happened at Skyfall, and for the aches of atrophied muscles and hunger. But they’d discussed his abuse of painkillers and alcohol before, and he didn’t want any chemical-induced fuzziness to blunt the pleasure of being back home. “I’m fine,” he said, holding Q tight.

Q laughed, quiet and low. “I have no idea how you two have managed to take care of yourselves for this long,” he scolded, lifting his head at the sound of water running in the sink. “Will you at least let me bring you plasters afterwards?”

It took Bond a moment to realise that something was off about the wording. He thought back to his escape from Silva — his rescue — and remembered how hard it had been to not lash out at the doctors in Medical. Only Alec’s presence had made the situation safe at all. But would he feel the same way about Q?

“Maybe,” he finally answered noncommittally.

“The first aid kit is fully restocked,” Q hinted strongly. “Alec’s got in a fair bit of trouble over the past few months.”

With a sigh, Bond nodded, not really caring that the rasp of his stubble raised marks on Q’s skin. He imagined that Alec probably hadn’t made much effort to keep himself safe in his hunt for Bond. He felt a surge of gratitude that Q had been there for Alec even as he wrestled with his own grief.

But it reminded him that he needed to talk to Alec — preferably in private, so Q wouldn’t worry. Reluctantly, he rolled away from Q and got off the bed. “I’ll be right back. Stay here?”

“Yes, James.” Q turned enough to look up at him. “You do need to eat, though.”

Q was right. Just standing made the edges of Bond’s vision shimmer and blur in a way that was all too familiar. He nodded, smiling at Q as if he’d been chastised. “All right. Is Jack still at the bakery?”

“As far as I’m aware, yes, James.”

Then Bond thought about the idea of someone else being admitted to the flat, or, worse, one of them leaving to fetch the food from downstairs. “Never mind,” he said ruefully. “Perhaps something quick from what we have.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Q offered, though he still didn’t move from the bed.

Bond leaned against the side of the bed and down over Q to give him a soft kiss. Again, Q didn’t move, except to close his eyes contentedly. “I’ll be a few minutes. We can continue this later, when the world isn’t quite so wobbly anymore.”

“Your dressing gown is on the hook in the bathroom, and your pyjamas are in the wardrobe,” Q hinted.

“Thank you. Go deal with breakfast,” Bond said with a chuckle. He gave Q one last soft kiss, then headed to the bathroom to find Alec. Behind him, he heard Q get out of the bed, followed by the rustle of his dressing gown.

Alec hadn’t bothered to lock the ensuite door. Bond let himself in without knocking. Alec was standing at the sink, wearing his own dressing gown — a ratty old robe that he’d had since their Navy days. No toothbrush or razor in hand; he was probably delaying his potentially awkward return to the bedroom. He glanced up at the click of the door, then frowned in some confusion when he saw Bond, as if he’d been expecting Q.

“Sorry. Q sent you to take a bath? He’s convinced they’re medically necessary post-mission, I think,” Alec said, turning off the water.

“No. He’s making breakfast,” Bond said, moving to get his dressing gown from the hook. “Hopefully it means finding a box of cereal rather than actual cooking,” he said with a smirk as he pulled the robe on.

Alec frowned with some concern. “I’ll go check. Or do you want me to pick something up?” he offered, moving to the door. He slipped between Bond and the counter and pulled the door fully open.

“Wait.” Bond set his hand on Alec’s shoulder. When Alec stopped and looked back at him, Bond gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before he let go and sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Alec leaned against the door, folding his arms when it clicked shut. “I don’t plan on staying,” he said pre-emptively. “I just need a week or two to find somewhere that’ll have me, if that’s all right.”

The declaration should have been expected, but Bond couldn’t do anything but look at Alec in obvious surprise. “You want to leave?”

He knew Alec too well; Alec couldn’t hide his frown of confusion. “You’re home now. You can look after Q yourself.”

“Home isn’t just a flat, Alec,” he said, meeting Alec’s eyes.

Alec sighed and looked away. “And Q isn’t mine. He needed to not be alone, James. He almost fell apart without you. He doesn’t understand this business the way we do.”

“He’s yours, too. I’ve seen the way he reacts to your commands — even before I... was gone.” He hesitated and realised he was unconsciously rubbing a hand over his chest.

Alec swore under his breath and shook his head. “I told him I wanted an introduction to the Marketplace. Just haven’t had the time yet.”

“Be honest. You don’t want someone else. You want him.” Bond took a breath, knowing what he should say next — _and us_ — but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. “We have something, the three of us.” He looked up, expression fierce, daring Alec to challenge him.

Alec glared back at him. “ _You_ have something — him. He’s in love with you. He wants to belong to you, and he can’t see that ever changing. Are you actually stupid enough to think I’m going to get in the way of that?” he challenged in a blatant attempt to end the conversation with a convenient argument. But that was only because he wasn’t hearing what Bond was trying to say. Not that it was Alec’s fault, Bond knew. It was a communication problem — one where _neither_ of them actually wanted to talk.

Instead of rising to the bait, Bond asked, “You don’t think he loves you, too? You’re right — he and I have something, because I found him first. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t... room.”

The quiet, truthful words took the fight out of Alec. He sighed and looked around the bathroom as though searching for an escape. “He needs you, not me. He’s never had to deal with the aftermath of something like this. Don’t over-complicate things for him.”

“What am I supposed to do, Alec? Let you leave? Pretend that you’re not as much a part of his life as I am? Do you think he’d be happy to just see you walk out, and only come back when one of us is broken?” Bond shook his head. “You deserve more than that. We all do.”

“And what about you?” Alec demanded. “You want the truth? I want him. Of course, I want him. He’s fucking _perfect_ , James. But he isn’t mine, and I’m not going to risk fucking up what _you_ have —”

A loud beep cut through his words. He pushed away from the door as Bond rose too fast, nearly losing his balance. It wasn’t the security system — the rhythm and tone of this alarm was all too familiar. The kitchen smoke alarm.

Bond caught Alec’s arm before he could rush out. He held firmly and met Alec’s gaze. “I want you to stay. _I_ _want you to stay_. Not just for him.”

Alec met Bond’s eyes for an instant. “All right,” he said more softly, turning to open the door. “We can all burn together.”

“None of us would have it any other way.” Bond chuckled quietly and squeezed Alec’s shoulder before he let his hand fall.

The insistent beep of the smoke alarm absolved Alec of the need to respond. He headed out into the bedroom, turning right for the hallway, calling, “Q! You all right?”

Bond heard Q shout back, “Yes, sir!” from the living room, not the kitchen.

With a sigh, Bond pulled his dressing gown tight and belted it. He followed Alec out, hoping that the kitchen fire was minor rather than major. He didn’t feel any tension or concern or panic — this was a known form of chaos. Bond couldn’t help but smile at the thought that it was almost comforting in its familiarity.

Alec stopped in the living room entryway. “What happened?” he asked over the sound of the balcony door opening. Cold air rushed into the warm flat, and Bond couldn’t help but shiver.

“The butter caught fire, sir.” The door closed as Bond looked past Alec to see Q had put a smoking pan on the balcony. Q’s eyes found Bond, and he smiled faintly. “I’m sorry to disturb your rest, James. I’ll have the alarm reset in —”

“On it,” Alec interrupted, avoiding looking at Bond as he moved aside to go deal with the beeping alarm in the kitchen.

Bond sighed and pulled a chair away from the dining table. He sat and beckoned Q over, returning the smile. “It’s kind of soothing, actually,” he said wryly. “If you were suddenly a master chef I’d be concerned.”

The smoke alarm went silent. Q glanced in the direction of the kitchen and then gave Bond an apologetic smile as he walked over. “I wanted to make something more than cold cereal for you. I’m sorry,” he said, stopping a careful foot away.

“It’s fine,” Bond reassured him, torn between wanting to wrap Q up in his arms and being grateful that Q hadn’t tried to touch him. He reached out for Q’s hand, knowing that he could initiate contact without Q pushing for more than he could offer. Q took Bond’s hand and moved one step closer before he knelt, resting his other hand on his own thigh. Smiling, Bond ran his free hand through Q’s hair.

It was amusing, when Bond thought about it — Q was one of the most dangerous people in the world, objectively speaking. He’d managed to get most of MI6 absolutely terrified of him, had TSS renamed after him just weeks after taking over the department, and seemed to have a propensity for setting things on fire. But here he was, kneeling at Bond’s feet, trying to look as harmless as possible.

“Should I call Jack?” Bond asked, leaning forward to kiss Q’s temple before he sat back and smiled down at him. “There’s no shame in paying the professionals to do what they’re best at.”

Q sighed, allowing Bond’s gentle touches to relax him into leaning against Bond’s leg, though he didn’t move his free hand from where it rested. “I can try again, James. Alec brought over his pans. They’re not Teflon, but that just means they shouldn’t be quite as toxic when they burn.”

Bond laughed and continued stroking through Q’s hair, thinking that, objectively speaking, that was probably true. “I think I’d rather have you right here with me than in the kitchen,” he confessed.

“You need to eat, James,” Q scolded gently. “I can call for something, if you’d prefer. And you’d be more comfortable on the couch.”

Bond hummed his agreement but didn’t move. He moved his hand from Q’s hair to gently cup his face. “Is there coffee?”

“The water was heating for it when...” He lifted his hand to gesture towards the balcony across the living room. “Would you like me to go brew it? It would only take a few minutes.”

It had been more months than he cared to remember since Q had perfectly prepared his coffee, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Q leaving him. Jack could bring coffee when he delivered whatever they ordered for breakfast. He stood and pulled Q up by the hand he was still holding. “Later,” he said, tugging Q to the couch. Unless Q’s coffee brewing methods had changed, the water was heating in an electric kettle which would automatically shut off, reducing the possibility of another alarm.

Q followed, allowing Bond to pull him onto the couch. As was his habit, he folded his legs up under himself, but he didn’t lean into Bond. Instead, he turned enough to pull down the blanket they kept folded over the back of the couch, and he spread it over Bond as best he could without letting go of Bond’s hand.

Bond settled, taking a breath as he pulled Q closer. “So, what have you been doing in TSS?” he asked, reaching for conversation just to keep Q from focusing on Bond’s lack of appetite. “I understand you’ve rocketed to the top quite spectacularly.”

“The executives asked Ms Marsh for suggestions on who should replace Major Boothroyd. I didn’t think you’d object,” Q said, darting a quick, wary glance at Bond. “If I’m running the department, I can more effectively keep you and Alec safe.”

“That’s true. I don’t object. Do you?” Bond asked, settling Q comfortably against him.

“No, James,” Q answered, turning just enough to keep his shoulder from digging into Bond’s side. “But I may need to take over the IT department and possibly CommSec, if I can’t get their directors to listen to me.”

“If anyone could do it, it would be you,” Bond said affectionately. “Particularly given that you have two loyal and absolutely devoted Double O’s behind you.” He laughed and pulled his free hand through Q’s hair again. “We threatened M last time we were in the office. Department directors are nothing to that.”

“The Chief of Staff likes me. He understands computers and can almost follow along with my ideas. Obviously there are too many potential holes in our network security. I recognise that remote stations need access, but there are better ways than simple passwords. I think there are ways I can use the concepts behind Tor to ensure none of our network traffic is compromised, but it’ll take a few months to develop.”

Bond let the familiar voice flow over and through him. He’d taken advantage of the remote access flaws himself on several occasions, though he’d done due diligence in reporting it — long after he’d done what he’d needed to do. “The Chief of Staff is a good man. Just don’t piss him off. He’s M’s favourite.”

Very carefully, Q said, “Gareth Mallory’s taken over as interim head of MI6, James.”

“Right,” Bond said, realising his error. His hand tightened on Q’s as he remembered the feel of M — _his_ M — dying in his arms. He took a deep breath and tried to push aside the lingering sensation of her cold body. “Mallory is keeping Tanner as Chief, then?”

“So it seemed as of yesterday.” Then, sounding embarrassed, Q added, “I remember an emergency meeting after you took M north in which Mallory mentioned wanting MI6 to stay ‘on course’, or something to that effect. I took that to mean as few changes as possible.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, though Q couldn’t see it. “Oh? Are you taking that to heart, then?”

“I’m doing everything I can to improve security and efficiency without causing the rest of the executive team undue stress,” Q answered with admirable diplomacy. Bond laughed and tugged on his hair.

The kitchen door creaked open, and Alec walked into the living room, carrying a plate with a fork balanced on the edge. “Water’s heated for coffee,” he told Q as he brought the plate to the coffee table and set it down by Bond. Three scrambled eggs, soft and fluffy, rested next to a few strips of bacon. Q didn’t move; he looked to Bond instead.

Bond looked down at the food, surprised. “Thank you,” he said, straightening from his slouch with Q. “That’s perfect, actually.” When had Alec learned to cook without setting off smoke alarms of his own? Bond gave him a questioning look, which he ignored.

“Coffee,” he told Q, who rose. As Q left the room, Alec asked Bond, “Did you leave anyone alive?”

Bond ran through the events at Skyfall, tallying the enemies and comparing it to his death count. He doubted that Silva, the crazy bastard, had actually commanded loyalty from his thugs, but it was still a relief to come to a tally of zero survivors. Well, zero aside from him and Kincade. “No.”

“Good. That’s a bad habit. You want your gun anyway?” Alec offered as he stepped back into the hall.

“Obviously.” They both _always_ carried a weapon of some kind, even when they weren’t freshly post-mission. Of course, they’d relaxed a little in the flat itself, but not by much. And Bond had been gone long enough that he couldn’t be certain where the spare weapons were stashed.

Alec huffed and nodded at the plate. “Eat your breakfast before Q gets stroppy with you,” he said before he turned down the hall.

Bond looked after Alec, not entirely certain what to think but gratified all the same. He picked up the plate and started eating, surprised at how good it was. He’d just bitten into the bacon when Q came back. “This is good,” Bond said. “I wonder what we can do to bribe him into cooking more often.”

“I didn’t know he could cook at all,” Q admitted as he put down a steaming mug of coffee and the thermal carafe.

Surprised that Alec hadn’t cooked for Q, if he’d been hiding this talent, Bond said, “I suppose that he had more important things to focus his energy on.” He gave Q a grateful smile and picked up the mug. “I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in ages.”

Q smiled in that way that had so captured Bond back when they’d first met; he really did take pleasure in the smallest things. No, not small, Bond corrected, taking a sip as Q left the room. The coffee was brewed to the perfect strength for his first morning cup. There was nothing small or insignificant about Q’s attention to detail in his service.

By the time Bond had finished breakfast, Alec came back, wearing old, faded jeans and a T-shirt with his backup revolver holstered at his belt. He put Bond’s service pistol on the coffee table before he slouched comfortably in the armchair across from Bond, bracing one foot on the corner of the coffee table.

“We should do something fun today,” Alec suggested. “Rob a bank, maybe. I haven’t robbed a bank for... what, four years? Five?”

“And I got shot that time, remember? It’s why we stopped,” Bond added with a laugh. “Too many ex-combat soldiers trying to find work and landing as security guards.”

“Learn to duck,” Alec said with his usual blunt logic. He glanced to the side as Q returned, carrying a plate of buttered toast and a mug. He set both down on the corner of the table by Alec’s foot and filled the mug from the carafe. “What do you think, Q? We could always use more money.”

“It would help pay your bail, sir, assuming a judge was foolish enough to release you both from custody,” Q said blandly as he set down the carafe and looked at Bond’s plate. “Toast, James?”

Bond shook his head, trying to remember the last time that Q hadn’t anticipated what he wanted. “No, thank you.” He glanced at Alec. “We could steal something. Something nice for Q, maybe. From a museum.” He leaned back and grinned. “Did you hear about the madman who broke into the Tower to wear the crown jewels” — he paused, wracking his mind for dates — “some time before I left? We can’t let that record stand.”

“A sarcophagus,” Alec said. “Everyone always goes for the jewels. No one tries to steal a bloody sarcophagus.”

“Lawyers _and_ a chiropractor,” Q muttered thoughtfully as he left the room.

Alec grinned after him and leaned forward to pick up one of the pieces of toast. “He didn’t say no. Think that means he’d like a sarcophagus?”

“A bit big for his tastes, maybe,” Bond said with mock thoughtfulness. “He’s not a ‘stuff’ sort of person. Maybe something a bit smaller. Easier to smuggle out.”

“Sniper rifle.” Alec crunched into the toast, then gestured with it, giving Bond a warning look. “If you don’t rush him, he’s terrifyingly accurate, for a novice.”

Bond nodded and looked in the direction Q had gone. He’d never anticipated Q would have a talent for marksmanship, but it made sense, given his attention to detail. The weight of how much Bond had missed settled in his consciousness.

“I’d like to see that,” he admitted. “Maybe we should go shooting today.”

“That either involves going to the office — which, _no_ — or the country. And that means we’ll have to steal a car, because the three of us won’t fit in mine.” Alec took another bite and winced, giving Bond a sympathetic look. “Sorry about yours.”

“I’m having it brought back here,” Bond said with a shrug, willing the sudden tide of anger back down into place. “I’ll have her shining and beautiful again in no time.” He looked up at Alec, daring him to argue.

“Meaning you’ll pay someone a bloody fortune to do the bodywork and rebuild the engine, and then send Q to dig into the archives to find out every last trick Boothroyd put into her,” Alec countered. “Let’s not imply _you’ll_ be doing any work beyond possibly changing the oil and bitching that the upholstery colour isn’t just right.”

“Some people are assassins and some people are engineers,” Bond said with a shrug.

Alec didn’t bother to roll his eyes; he didn’t have to. He just finished the slice of toast and then leaned forward to pick up his coffee. Then he sat back, drinking quietly, watching Bond as if reading his mind.

Which he very well could be, Bond thought. They’d known each other for far too long, and had been in far too many situations together where such mind reading — anticipation, really — were necessary to keep them alive. It was damn useful in the field, and bloody annoying the rest of the time.

Bond pushed his plate away. Good as the breakfast was, he still wasn’t up to eating a full meal. He shoved the blanket against the arm of the couch as a pillow and turned to lie down. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Other than trying to find you?” Alec snorted and picked up the other piece of toast, balancing the mug of coffee on one arm of the chair. “I think I got written up a few times, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I meant in the world at large,” Bond said with a quiet laugh. “A UFO could have landed somewhere and I wouldn’t have known.”

Alec took a couple of bites of toast. “Mars, Iran, the embassy attacks, a hurricane that nearly wiped out the American East Coast, the usual mess in Gaza. I don’t anticipate that we’ll be sent there, but you never know. Everyone’s building fucking nukes these days.”

Bond grunted his acknowledgement, for once strangely reluctant to think about the possibility of being sent out again. He turned his head back toward the ceiling and closed his eyes, diverting himself from the suddenly fast beat of his heart to focus on Alec’s words. Hurricane, Iran... Mars? He’d have to get his hands on a computer or tablet to skim through the headlines.

Q entered as the sound of crunching toast stopped. Bond heard the quiet sound of him picking up dishes. Then he put them back down, and Bond felt a brush of fabric — the dressing gown Q still wore — against his sleeve. He opened his eyes to see Q had knelt down beside the couch, just in reach of Bond, though he had his hands in his lap.

Bond looked at the dishes and back at Q, wondering why he’d stopped cleaning to kneel down beside him. Did he really look that bad?

A glance at Alec showed that he was watching intently. It had been his idea, Bond realised. He’d silently signalled Q, who’d obeyed him without question. Bond waited for a surge of jealousy and possessiveness, but it never came. Dominance came more naturally to Alec than to Bond, and Q responded beautifully. The two of them had a balance that Bond might never find with Q. But it wasn’t exclusionary; he wasn’t left out or pushed aside because of it. Instead, Alec used that dominance for Bond’s benefit.

Bond thought about arguing, about snapping at them that he was fine. A tiny curl of anger tried to make its way through him, but Bond refused to let it take hold. As much as he wanted everything to go back to the way it was, it just wasn’t possible at the moment. He _did_ need their help, if only for a little while, he told himself.

He reached out and ran a reverent hand through Q’s hair, letting the touch calm him again. It wasn’t Alec and Q’s fault that Bond needed to be treated as if he were broken. He was. He couldn’t be touched without flinching or worse, and the comforting presence of the gun so close, in reach, was a beacon. He closed his eyes again. “Thanks,” he said to the room at large.

“If you fall asleep there, I’ll drag your arse back to bed by your ankles,” Alec threatened casually. Bond felt Q twitch in response, suppressing a laugh.

“There’s a gun in reach, and I’ve redeemed my marksmanship scores,” Bond threatened back, though the effect was somewhat ruined by a yawn. The food had settled heavily in his stomach. “The couch is comfortable.”

“Q wouldn’t let you shoot me. You wouldn’t let him shoot me, would you?”

“Mallory hasn’t changed the org chart, sir. I outrank both of you. And that weapon” — Bond felt Q nod in the direction of the Walther on the table — “is technically my department’s inventory. No one’s shooting anyone here.”

“Fine,” Bond muttered with a half-hearted grumble. He sat up and turned, returning his hand to Q’s hair and glaring at Alec without any real menace. “But if I’m being sent to bed, you’re coming with me.”

Bond had the rare pleasure of seeing Alec caught entirely wrong-footed. Even Q twitched, his head raising up fractionally, just enough to brush his hair against Bond’s palm.

Feeling more delighted at their reactions than perhaps he had any right to be, Bond stood and tugged Q up with him. “Come on. We’ve earned a lazy day in bed.”

Q didn’t reach for Bond. Instead, he asked, “Did you want the first aid kit, James?”

With a sigh, Alec got up and answered, “Yes, he does. Bring it to the bedroom.” He looked directly at Bond and said, “Either you let one of us see to you, or you take enough tranqs to knock you out, and then we patch you up anyway. Your choice.”

Bond couldn’t help the way his body froze at the thought, his hand tightening mercilessly on Q’s arm. He swallowed and looked away from Alec, fighting the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Pain alone he could tolerate, but not combined with drug-induced helplessness. For weeks, he’d been unable to fight back against what they’d done to him.

Alec swore viciously in Russian before saying, much more gently, “Right, no tranqs. Q, stay with him. I’ll get the kit.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Bond wanted to say, but he swallowed it back. They all knew he wasn’t _right_ — that it would take time for him to heal. Silently, he forced himself to let go of Q’s arm and, without meeting anyone’s eyes, he headed for the bedroom.

Q followed closely, silently. Once they were in the bedroom, Q took off his dressing gown and draped it over the armchair by the window. Then he pulled back the blankets and climbed into the centre of the bed, where he laid down on his back and folded his hands under his head. Then he turned and looked at Bond, his expression calm and unafraid.

Bond took off his own dressing gown and retreated to the bathroom for a moment. He knew he couldn’t reach everything on his own, just as he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold still for very long if one of them tried to fix him. Tranquilisers, Alec had said, which meant he’d brought some over with him; Bond had binned his collection of tranquilisers and painkillers almost a year ago. But using Alec’s seemed like a perfectly acceptable alternative. At least if Bond tried to attack, his reactions would be slowed and inaccurate. And Alec would know better than Q where to touch, how to touch, how slowly to move to keep from triggering a dangerous reaction.

Before he could start to search the cupboards, Alec walked in behind him. He deliberately closed the door as far as he could until it hit Bond’s shoulder, forcing Bond to move aside. When the door latched, Alec reached past him to turn on the vent fan, filling the room with dull white noise.

“Do you remember everything they did to you?” he asked bluntly, meeting Bond’s eyes in the mirror.

“No,” Bond confessed. “I was kept heavily drugged while recovering from the gunshot wound.” He opened the cupboard under the sink, searching for the first aid kit. “My tolerance has changed. How many tranqs do you think my system can handle?”

Alec studied Bond’s face for long seconds before he opened the medicine cabinet and took down a prescription bottle. “Can you put together what happened?” he asked as he opened it.

It took Bond a moment to realise where Alec was going with this. “Yes,” he said, meeting Alec’s eyes again. “Knives. Generic pain. What you’re thinking...” He shook his head, knowing he would remember sexual assault. “No.”

Alec’s nod betrayed his relief. He shook out one pill and offered it to Bond. “If you need more, I’ll fight Q over it. If I start you with two, he’ll poison my dinner.”

Bond took it without argument. “I’m being ridiculous, I know.” He shook his head and swallowed the pill, then ran the water. He drank a few handfuls before giving Alec a grim smile. “Just be quick with whatever you have to do.”

“You’re not in top form. You can’t hurt me,” Alec countered as he replaced the bottle on the shelf. He held out his hand for the first aid kit. “Go lie down with him, before he freezes without a blanket. Once you calm down, you can get the cuts you can reach. Then I’ll get the rest of them.”

“Fine.” Bond took the kit but didn’t leave yet. “Alec, I don’t want to argue about this. I want it settled before we go back to bed.” He reached out, but withdrew after just brushing his fingertips over Alec’s hand. “You’re staying. And not because of this” — he waved at himself and the kit — “but because it’s where you belong, and we all know it.”

Alec let out a frustrated breath. “Fine.” He glanced at the door. “Q and I... We figured out how to live together,” he said, choosing his words with a measure of care Bond hadn’t heard since Alec had still been mastering English. “It’s what he needed to stay focused on helping you.”

Bond stared at Alec, trying to parse his words. After a moment, he sighed. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say,” he said tiredly. “I don’t care. Obviously what you’ve done so far has worked.”

“I haven’t — Not that,” Alec said uncomfortably. “What I’m saying is, it’s not fair to make him second-guess who’s in charge. You two had a balance worked out, but I’m not you. I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to choose which one of us to listen to. That’s not fucking fair to any of us. So just go back to what you two had, all right? If you want me to stay, I will, but he belongs to you.”

“Fine,” Bond said wearily. “Let’s go to bed.” He handed the kit over. “I’m going to listen to Q’s heartbeat for a while.”

Alec turned off the vent fan and opened the door. “That really helps?”

“More than Valium,” Bond said. Then he chuckled. “If the combination makes me fall asleep, you’ll probably have plenty of time to work.” Then he crossed to the bed, climbed over the covers, and laid his head down over Q’s heart, waiting for peace to come.


	25. Chapter 25

**Thursday, 29 November 2012**

Almost an hour after the lunch rush — two hours after Bond was supposed to meet Q — Bond let himself into the cafe across the bridge from the tunnels that led down into the temporary home of MI6. Two hours wasted in a meeting to ‘discuss security protocols’, which was executive-speak for ‘telling the agents what had already been decided and refusing to listen to their input’. Bond’s only solace was that the Special Security Committee representative had drawn as much barely concealed ire from Mallory as from the assembled agents, and he anticipated that as soon as the committee was done prodding about in MI6’s affairs, Mallory would put the house in order as he saw fit.

It was a rare sunny day after ten straight days of rain, though the freezing temperatures kept most people indoors. The cafe’s heater was in overdrive, and Bond unbuttoned his overcoat and loosened his scarf as he searched the tables for Q.

He spotted him near the back of the cafe, sprawled with unusually boneless grace in a chair with his back to the door. And... he’d changed his hair? Bond had slept in that morning, and Q had been gone when he’d woken up. Q’s normally soft, gently curled hair had been teased up into hazardous spikes.

And he was wearing a black leather cuff around his right wrist? But not one of their cuffs — this one had silver spikes on it, alternating with carved studs.

He’d changed out of his suit as well. Instead of one of the sensible, elegant bespoke suits that Bond had bought him, he was in scandalously tight trousers that looked shiny, like vinyl or PVC, and a shirt that draped oddly over his thin frame. He’d foregone shoes for boots — heavy ones with thick leather and far too many buckles.

Slowly, feeling just a bit stunned, Bond walked up to Q, sorting and summarily dismissing a dozen different scenarios from his mind. Drugs, undercover work, identity crisis, finally cracking after Bond’s long captivity, some strange new kink...

But Bond was nothing if not patient and observant, so he made his way over and stood staring down at Q, looking for any clues that might give him insight.

The way Q’s shoulders hunched up was entirely _wrong_. He twisted in his seat, and Bond saw the radical change hadn’t stopped at his wardrobe. Two rings pierced his lower lip, a third went through his septum, and a fourth through his right eyebrow. His earrings — multiple ones in each ear — were almost mundane by comparison to the jet black rings with steel balls through his other piercings.

He frowned as if he didn’t recognise Bond, looking him over with a quick glance that betrayed nothing — no feelings, no awkwardness, not even _interest_. Then he looked back up, and Bond realised he wasn’t wearing glasses or even contacts, and Q _always_ wore his glasses.

“ _You’re_ James?” he asked in a voice that was subtly different, more in the accent than tone. Instead of Q’s refined accent, syllables broadened by his experience across the world over his time in the Marketplace, _this_... man, whoever he was, had a sharper, more raw edge to his words.

No need for glasses. Different body language. The piercings were not new; they’d long since healed, without even the faintest hint of redness at the edges. Different voice. And now that Bond was looking carefully, there was a subtle difference in bone structure. Just a shade thinner and lighter.

This wasn’t Q.

Bond scanned his memory for any hint that Q had a twin and came up blank. Which, of course, meant only that he hadn’t been informed, not that there wasn’t one. He felt a twinge of guilt and irritation. How could Q have an identical twin and Bond didn’t know?

“And you are?” he finally asked, calmly and without inflection.

“Z.” The man finally got up, revealing the same build and an inch more height than Q only because of his heavy boots. The front of his shirt was layered knit cotton, frayed at the edges in straps that crossed his body just enough to stay decent. He put out his right hand, looking Bond over again, and this time, he smiled Q’s smile. “I should’ve fucking figured. Lose the suit, and you really are his type, huh?”

Bond glanced at Z’s hand, unable to bring himself to touch; despite appearances, this was a stranger. This wasn’t Q, and even for the sake of politeness to what was obviously Q’s twin, he just _couldn’t_. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile he hoped would cover the fact that he wasn’t going to shake Z’s hand. “Identical twins. How interesting.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Z said, his expression turning sympathetic as he pulled back his hand. He waved at the far side of the table, where a teacup and plate sat abandoned. “Almost identical, yeah.”

Bond sat down, using the moment to hide any sign of surprise. Q and Z had to be close for the twin to know about Bond’s aversion to touch. That was private, something Bond assumed Q wouldn’t discuss with anyone.

Z sat down, watching Bond. “So, a lifetime contract? Really?”

Again, Bond concentrated on hiding his surprise that this ‘almost identical twin’ not only knew about the contract — the fact that his own brother was giving himself to Bond as a slave — but seemed accepting of it.

“Yes,” Bond answered, releasing his jacket button. “Are you Marketplace, too?”

“Oh, fuck no. I’d never end up where I wanted to be, even if I could play by the rules.” He grinned at Bond, adding, “Q was always better at that shit than I was.”

“Well, to be fair, he’s better at it than nearly anyone,” Bond said, returning the grin. “What do you do?”

“We both do computers. I built up a few companies and sold them. Contract work, that sort of —” He cut off, looking past Bond, and grinned with a sudden, stunning brightness that Bond was used to seeing on Q’s face.

“Oh, god,” he heard Q say from behind him, and turned to see Q rushing for the table from the back hallway. He didn’t look panicked only because he _never_ looked panicked, but the faintest signs were there. “I’m so sorry, James.”

Bond felt the subtle tension he’d carried since walking into the restaurant and not seeing Q — or, Q as he was used to seeing him — evaporate. He reached out and took hold of Q’s hand, trusting that Q would let him control how they touched.

“You didn’t tell me you had a twin,” he teased.

“I’m sorry. We don’t — we’ve had to be careful, because of our parents,” Q said a bit evasively.

Bond thought about Q’s parents — more specifically, the father. The unpleasant politician. It occurred to him that Bond hadn’t heard anything about them since Q had first mentioned his father on _Le Nautille_. He wondered if either of Q’s parents had contacted Q to make sure he’d come through the bombing unscathed. Surely Q would have said something.

“Fucking arseholes,” Z added helpfully. “And don’t worry, brother. I didn’t start on the embarrassing shit yet.”

“I can ask him to shoot you,” Q countered.

“I’d endeavour for the non-fatal shot simply because you two seem close,” Bond assured Z as he let go of Q’s hand to pull a chair out for him.

“Did you want lunch?” Q asked Bond, rather than sitting down.

Not only was Bond not quite up to eating regular meals again; his stomach was still churning from the stress of this morning’s meeting. “No, thank you,” he answered. “But if you’d like something, go ahead; I promise not to start interrogating your brother while you’re gone.”

Q hesitated before saying, “I’ll get you tea. It’s freezing out.”

“I got it,” Z said, standing. “Sit down before you sprain something. It’ll give you two minutes to find a way to explain me without shocking him,” he added, throwing an amused grin Bond’s way before he picked up the teapot in the middle of the table and went for the counter.

Q sat down next to Bond, looking guilty. “I really am sorry, James. Of all the possible ways you could’ve met, this is one of the worst. I never intended it to be like this.”

Bond rested an arm on the table and turned so he could look at Q more easily. “I only thought he was you for a moment. Seconds, really. I didn’t ask what the hell he was thinking, or accuse him of being insane for getting piercings without my permission,” he said with amusement.

Q winced and put his hand on the table, giving Bond the option of taking it if he chose. “He’s...” He looked over at Z, who seemed to be aggressively flirting with the barista, who was flirting back with him. “He’s been on his own even longer than I have. Only without university and the Marketplace, he just... does whatever he wants.” There was a fond note to Q’s sigh.

“He doesn’t seem to be suffering for it,” Bond said absently and he traced the lines on Q’s palm before taking Q’s hand. He squeezed, and was gratified that Q let his fingers remain relaxed, not trapping his hand. “The meeting was as tedious as I predicted.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get Mallory to agree to let you conference in. Z didn’t offend you, did he?”

“He apologized for extending his hand for a handshake after I didn’t take it,” Bond said, looking up from their joined hands to give Q a curious look.

With another guilty flinch, Q explained, “He’s happy for us. He probably would’ve been all over you. You’re family now, to him.”

Bond lifted Q’s hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across the pale, unscarred knuckles. “It’s fine. You can tell him whatever you like. I suspect there’s very little that could get in his way of finding out anything, anyway. He obviously doesn’t have your restraint,” he added with a smile.

“I tried to convince him to join MI6,” Q admitted. Then, with a wry grin, he added, “He eventually stopped laughing at me. He prefers doing contract work — without a dress code.”

Bond looked over at where Z was standing by the counter. “Or rules, I imagine.” Bond looked back at Q, expression turning more serious. “You don’t need to keep him from the flat. He’s more than welcome there. Though I imagine it would be wise to warn Alec, first.”

Q’s eyes went wide. “Oh, god. We don’t need them _ever meeting_ ,” he said in faint horror. “You have no idea the destruction my brother can cause on his own, James.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine it,” Bond said affectionately, drawing a thumb over Q’s cheekbone. Bond had occasionally wondered what would have happened if Q had been snapped up by a criminal at auction — if he’d been forced to use his skills against England. He’d realised quickly that someone with Q’s talents but without morals or loyalty could have easily caused significant damage across the world without having to fly anywhere. He didn’t imagine Z was a terrorist, but he obviously had all of Q’s genius and not nearly the same amount of self-restraint.

Q looked over as Z came back, carrying the teapot in one hand, a mug hooked over his little finger, and a plate with two sticky buns in the other. He put everything down, pushed the mug towards Bond, and sat back down. “ _Now_ can I talk?” he asked, looking across the table at Q.

“If I say no, will it stop you?” Q countered.

Z grinned. “Has it ever?”

Q gave Bond an apologetic smile that wasn’t quite genuine; it was obvious that he liked his brother too much to be truly embarrassed by him. “I haven’t told him anything confidential, but he —”

“Not that MI6 could stop me,” Z interrupted.

“ _I_ can stop you,” Q answered smoothly, without looking at Z. To Bond, he continued, “He knows everything. While you were gone, he helped. I... I didn’t mention it to Alec.”

Bond took a deep breath and looked down at their joined hands for a calming, grounding moment. It somehow didn’t seem right that someone so important to Q’s life had been absent from Bond’s for so long, only to be brought in when he was nearly helpless and broken, but any discomfort at the thought melted away under the weight of gratitude.

He looked up, meeting Z’s sharp gaze, full of the same intelligence as Q’s. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “For everything,” he added, knowing Z would understand.

The corner of Z’s mouth twitched up. “He’s my brother,” he said softly, before his grin turned dangerous. “Guess that means you are, too, once you get the paperwork filed. Who gets to give away the bride?”

“We’re not having a ceremony. We don’t _actually_ have to invite him,” Q told Bond, though he was trying and failing to hide a smile of his own.

“He didn’t specify who the bride was, so perhaps he can stay,” Bond said with a chuckle.

“We could always distract him with an introduction to Danielle.”

“The one from work?” Z asked, sitting forward. “The one who feeds you?”

Q smiled affectionately at Z. “She’s a brilliant cook.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. I have to meet her, one of these days.” Z’s pierced eyebrow twitched up thoughtfully. “She have a daughter?” he asked, his grin taking on a predatory edge.

“No,” Q blatantly lied.

Z rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. Tell me you two are registering somewhere good, not fucking Ann Summers or something.”

Q’s hand tightened, and he gave Bond the same pleading look. “I’m sorry, James. No one’s ever _really_ ready for Z.”

Z let out a laugh. “You’ve had two and a half fucking years to break him in. If he’s not ready, he never will be.”

Bond laughed and looked over at Q. “What do you think, Q? Am I sufficiently broken in?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as you finish the lost inventory paperwork you never did from last year,” Q said, leaning in to kiss Bond’s shoulder so softly that he barely creased Bond’s suit jacket.

“Yeah, how _do_ you work that out?” Z asked as he ripped a piece off one of the sticky buns. “I mean, him being your boss at work, with you being his owner and all. You know Q’s not a switch, right?” he added to Bond, a defensive tone creeping into his voice.

Bond smiled at Z, feeling both grateful of the protective instinct and oddly affectionate for someone he’d just met. “Q’s job is to take care of me,” he said after a moment’s thought. “The only reason he’s even there is because... because I need him to protect my body at work, and the rest of me at home. Everything he does in TSS is because he’s trying to make me safer, to ensure I come back to him. It makes being chastised about equipment loss, which could actually result in my death or worse, much less about being ordered about and much more about him wanting me to be safe.”

Q said nothing, though his hand tightened around Bond’s and he leaned subtly closer, though he didn’t touch. Z studied both of them, probably reading Q’s thoughts even better than Bond could. Bond suspected Q was pleased, but Z’s slow, approving, genuine smile confirmed it.

“Right,” Z said softly, and tapped his mobile on the table. “So, are you going on a fucking honeymoon or something? Spain doesn’t have any public nudity laws. Just watch him,” he added to Bond. “We sunburn like all hell.”

Relieved, Bond nodded, turning to look at Q. “A honeymoon? Any ideas? I have to admit, I’m not sure how I’d feel about a cruise,” he said with a chuckle, rubbing at where he’d been shot on _Le Nautille_.

“I’ll research it,” Q offered.

“I’ll help,” Z added.

“And I’ll filter out most of his ideas,” Q finished, smiling at Bond.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bond said, giving Z a knowing grin. “I can imagine that he’d have some _very_ unique ideas.”

“I can tell you every dungeon from Sweden to Ibiza, if you want,” Z offered Bond. “A few are even sort of romantic. A kind of dungeon-bed and breakfast setup. I’ll text Q some links.”

Bond stared at Z for a long moment, trying to determine whether or not he was actually serious. When it became obvious that he was, Bond laughed — long and loud and honest. “Romantic dungeons,” he huffed between laughs. But then he became aware that Z was watching him — staring, even, as though fascinated. He got his laughter under control, feeling unusually self-conscious under the eyes of two very different geniuses.

“Fuck,” Z said with what was apparently his customary eloquence. “So that’s how you did it.”

Bond shot a look at Q and saw, to his surprise, a faint blush on his cheeks. Q hadn’t even blinked at the open references to Bond as his owner or any of Z’s teasing.

“Did what?” Bond asked, looking between Q and Z. His hand tightened around Q’s, afraid that he’d made some misstep that was apparent to the twin, but Q would never have told him.

“That laugh,” Z said. “That’s why he fell for you.”

Bond looked over at Q, whose blush was only deepening. He reached up to brush a thumb over Q’s cheekbone, following the line of the blush. “There are worse ways to win someone over,” he said with quiet affection. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but the meeting...”

“Of course,” Q said at once.

“Z, you’re welcome to come over at any time,” Bond added, knowing that Q would never assume he had permission to have guests at the flat. “Ready to go, Q?”

Q  nodded, standing. When Bond released his hand, he circled the table, and as Z got to his feet, Q pulled him into a hug. There was no mistaking the close affection between them. Bond heard soft whispers but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Then Z let go of Q to look over at Bond. Side-by-side, Bond could see subtle differences between the twins. Z made no effort to offer a handshake. “Take care of him for me.”

“I promise,” Bond said sincerely. He stood and smiled at Z. “Perhaps next time you should have dinner with us. We’ll even order out, so you don’t have to watch us attempt to not catch the kitchen on fire.”

“I’ll try to find a girlfriend who can cook,” Z said, giving Q one last hug before he let go. “The pathetically starving genius routine never fails.”

Q sorted out his coat. “I’m amazed you’re still allowed out in public. Be nice, Z.”

“I’m —”

“Always nice. So I hear,” Q interrupted with a fond smile as he turned to Bond. “Ready, James?”

“Ready,” Bond said, tugging on his own coat. “Goodbye, Z. Thanks again,” he added with an honest smile before turning back to Q. “Thai? In a few hours, of course. I need to decompress from this morning’s meeting.”

Q fell in beside Bond, only stepping ahead to open the door for him. He shivered when they went out into the cold. “Thank you, James. I’m sorry I never told you about Z before. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”

“I agree,” Bond said, smiling despite the damp chill. “Being able to answer his questions was very useful. Even just a year ago, I suspect my foolish replies would have made me an enemy for life, no matter how I tried to remedy it later.”

“You’re probably correct,” Q said honestly, turning to look Bond over. Then, carefully, he reached into Bond’s coat pocket and took out his gloves, which he pointedly offered to Bond. “Z and I have always been very protective of one another.”

“Good,” Bond said firmly, taking the gloves without complaint. He slid them on, pleased to see that they were starting to fit again. “I meant what I said, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

“I thought it safer to meet somewhere in public. I’m not entirely sure you were ready for the shock of finding Z in your flat.” Then he laughed, adding, “I’m not entirely sure building security is ready for Z at all.”

“I think you underestimate my ability to deal with quirky geniuses,” Bond teased. He gripped Q’s wrists, despite knowing that he didn’t have to, and stole a kiss from Q’s warm mouth, not caring that they were right outside the cafe, and that there were a dozen people watching them.

Q gave in to the kiss with a soft, warm laugh, pressing against Bond’s hands just to feel his secure hold. He didn’t try to close the inches between them, though, or to step against Bond or push him against the wall, or even to demand another kiss when Bond drew back. He took a somewhat shaky breath and smiled, saying, “Fortunately for me, you’re not in the least Z’s type.”

“Yes, I got the feeling that he is quite hetero,” Bond said. He turned and led the way down the street, wishing he could hold Q’s arm securely in his own but completely unable to actually do so.

“And dominant. And unconventional.” Q pulled on his own gloves and pushed his hands into his pockets with a little shiver as they walked. “It’s been nice, being back in London with him. Other than you and Alec, he’s all I have.”

“He was there for you long before I was,” Bond said thoughtfully. “If you can think of an adequate way for me to thank him, please let me know.” Then he glanced over at Q and stopped, forcing Q to stop as well. He took a step closer — closer than he’d been able to manage yet when Alec wasn’t around. “I love you,” he said quietly and carefully.

Q smiled, not moving his hands from his coat pockets. “I love you, too, James.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Friday, 14 December 2012**

Bond had put this off for too long.

For a month now, he’d been trying to exorcise his remaining demons from his time with Silva. He felt utterly foolish — not that he’d admit it to anyone — because the fact was that Silva hadn’t actually _hurt_ him that badly. He didn’t have any shattered bones, any cut-off toes, any removed fingernails. Silva had carved up his skin like Christmas roast, varying his approach with the occasional burn, but the damage was almost entirely superficial.

It made his knee-jerk reaction — to flinch away or strike out at the source of an unexpected touch — all the more annoying. Fortunately, so far, it hadn’t negatively impacted his relationship with Q. As a result of not being able to tolerate much more than Q pinned helpless beneath him, Bond had come to rely on either Alec or a set of cuffs to make intimacy with Q possible at all, but that wasn’t an option with Alec out of the country.

This was getting old. Bond wanted to be touched, _needed_ to feel Q’s hands on him under the sheets. The deadline he’d set for himself was nearly on him — he and Q were travelling to the Southerby residence tomorrow to finalise their contract. Bond needed to put the last several horrible months behind him and get a fresh start. One that began with him and Q signing their lifetime commitment to each other.

 _Tomorrow_.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to be able to be touched freely on the evening they signed their contract. He wanted to touch _Q_ freely, without the guilt of Q’s inability to reciprocate weighing on him. Today, on his way out of headquarters, he’d stopped at Medical to pick up everything he needed. Tomorrow night, he wanted to mark Q as a symbolic gesture of their commitment. The kit had everything he needed to make Q as comfortable as possible: anaesthetic, antiseptics, gauze, and the sharpest scalpels Bond could steal. He’d settled on a design as well, pulled from one of his few happy memories. Months of planning, practicing, waiting for the right time... He didn’t want it ruined with self-loathing. He needed to get himself pulled back together tonight so that tomorrow would be free of doubt of any kind.

He’d asked Q to strip and meet him in the tub when they were finished with dinner, thinking that a soapy massage might be an excellent starting point. But when he came into the room, Q was waiting in the tub on his knees, reminding Bond of the first time they’d showered together onboard _Le Nautille_.

With a smile at the memory, Bond stepped into the tub with him, stroking a hand through Q’s hair.

Q bowed his head and pushed up into Bond’s touch. By now, Bond knew that the way Q leaned in closer, close enough for Bond to feel Q’s breath on his legs, was no accident. With a slight shiver, Bond gripped Q’s hair and pulled him forward.

Q knelt up and tugged against Bond’s hold so he could lick over Bond’s upper thigh. His hands, behind his back, twitched, not quite clenching into fists as he strained towards Bond’s cock.

“Touch me,” Bond ordered quietly. “However you want. It’s been too long,” he sighed, running his free hand down Q’s neck to tap suggestively on his shoulder.

Q didn’t hesitate. He moved his hands to Bond’s legs, just at the waterline, and drew the warm water up over his knees. He pulled harder against the hand in his hair, ducking his head to nose at Bond’s hair before he licked over his balls. The touch of his hands was gentle, never circling around to hold Bond in place, and the feel of his mouth was distracting.

Bond exhaled slowly, closing his eyes, cataloguing the sensations. He had an irrational urge to check the alarm system again, to get out and lock the bathroom door, to fetch the gun he’d left on the bedside table when he’d stripped. But those thoughts were nothing new, and Bond pushed them aside and focused on Q’s mouth.

Despite how good it felt, however, it wasn’t quite enough. The gentle touches to his legs were pleasant but random, and Bond found himself falling back into the habit of trying to predict where they would land next. Finally, suppressing his frustration, Bond opened his eyes and looked down. He touched Q’s chin to get his attention.

Q looked up, nose and lips gently brushing against Bond’s half-hard cock. He searched Bond’s face for a moment before saying, “Tell me what you want, James. Please.”

The frustration threatened to hit again, but Bond kept his gaze on Q. He chuckled, the sound edged with tension, and he started running both hands through Q’s hair. “Can’t you just fix me?” he said with a wry smile.

Instead of answering immediately, Q seemed to take the question seriously. He knelt back, ducking out of Bond’s grasp of his hair. “I can try,” he said, standing. He leaned past Bond to turn off the water and then stepped out of the tub, holding out his hand.

Surprised and hopeful, Bond took Q’s hand and stepped over the tub ledge as well. “I don’t suppose this will involve caramel?” he asked, hoping his false amusement would hide the tension.

Q squeezed his hand before he let go and took one of the towels from the counter. He knelt down and started to dry Bond’s legs. “Not this time,” he said, an edge of tension creeping into his voice. “If you want to wait until Alec comes home, we can.”

“No,” Bond said with a sigh. “We’re supposed to be celebrating, just you and me.” He shook his head and looked thoughtfully out at the bedroom. “Maybe I’ll just get the cuffs for you again. We can work on this later, when the timing is more appropriate.”

Q set the damp towel aside and looked up at him. “My thought,” he said carefully, “was that you should... confront whatever worries you. The cuffs won’t fit you, but you have rope...”

Bond stopped breathing, staring down at Q, thinking about his suggestion. On one hand, it would solve the immediate problem of his having to constantly fight his natural reactions. Being bound meant that Bond wouldn’t be able to respond to the touches — only feel them. On the other hand, just the thought of it had Bond clenching his fists.

“You don’t like being the one doing the tying,” he said carefully, watching Q.

“I love touching you. I love pleasing you. And I want to help you. I don’t know if it will help, but it’s all I can think of.”

Bond hesitated for only a moment longer. Finally, he nodded stiffly, and gently pulled Q up by the shoulder. “All right. But not rope. I can get out of it too easily.” He turned and led Q to the bedroom. “I have a pair of handcuffs in my field kit in the hall cupboard. The key is on a ring attached to them.”

“I want you able to get out. I know how to tie a knot so one pull will release it.” Q lifted his hands to cup Bond’s face and kissed him. “This isn’t about sex and teasing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Bond agreed. “But what’s the point of the illusion of restraint? I’ll just pull free and the whole exercise will have been useless. Or we’ll have to keep stopping to re-tie the ropes.” He shook his head. “Cuffs. Just leave the key somewhere you can reach it. Where I can see it.”

Q stepped back and took hold of Bond’s wrists. The touch made Bond want to pull away, but he breathed through it, reminding himself that Q was safe. Q wouldn’t hurt him. His fingers were thin but long; he was able to circle Bond’s wrists, just touching his thumb and middle finger together.

When Bond met his eyes, Q said, “I’m not going to let you hurt yourself if you struggle, and cuffs will hurt. This isn’t a mission. That sort of damage _isn’t_ acceptable, and I’m not going to complicate matters with makeshift padding. If you untie yourself, then we stop, and I re-tie the knots if you want.” He lifted Bond’s hands and kissed his knuckles, meeting his eyes. “I spent four months in Japan, James. I can tie almost every knot imaginable, with my eyes closed. You’ll get bored long before I do.”

Bond looked at Q and reminded himself that Q wasn’t just his lover — he was also his Quartermaster. And his suggestions never failed Bond, or any of the other agents he’d worked with. _Fix me_ , Bond had demanded of him. Now he needed to trust Q to do his best to meet the challenge.

With a nod and a light brush of lips over Q’s forehead, Bond acquiesced. “Fine. But nothing I can release with a tug. Use a knot that will take some effort to get out of.”

Q smiled. “Go lie down. I’ll get everything ready.”

Relieved, Bond nodded and headed to the bed. This was what he needed — what he’d come to rely on from the very earliest days of their relationship: for Q to fix him. Make him human again. And with that being Q’s order, the owner’s demand for the slave to accomplish, Bond was certain Q would bring the force of his great intellect to bear on the problem. As long as Bond gave him the room he needed to do the job and the trust to do as Q asked, Bond knew Q wouldn’t fail.

Maybe he would be fixed by tomorrow, after all.

 

~~~

 

Q wondered if Bond had any idea of the training given to the executive and management teams — including training on dealing with Double O’s, field agents, and station personnel. Combat, torture, and tragedy were daily threats for everyone at MI6, but it was easy to lose touch with that at the home office. Or it had been. Now, Silva’s two attacks had driven that knowledge home for everyone.

After a trauma, all field agents were supposed to be under the care of one of the MI6-approved psychiatrists. Naturally Bond had circumvented this, and in the chaotic aftermath of Silva’s attack and the incident at Skyfall, no one was foolish enough to demand that Bond submit to counselling. Unfortunately, this left Q — and, to an extent, Alec — to fix the damage left by three months of captivity, an attack on what should have been Bond’s secure home base, and the death of his commanding officer.

 _We can’t train you to handle everything, so we instead train you to handle anything_ , Chris Parker had said years ago. Q couldn’t help but wonder how he’d handle this. He’d probably end up tripping over one of Bond’s triggers and getting himself killed, Q admitted to himself. Or he’d be perfect in his obedience and do nothing to stop Bond’s decline.

 _Fuck that_ , Q thought wryly as he went through the flat, gathering what he needed. A bowl of steaming water served to heat the unscented massage oil they both preferred to use. He found the rope tucked away on a shelf in the walk-in wardrobe. Bond didn’t have emergency shears, but he had more knives than any one man should own. The two in his bedside drawer would work well enough to free Bond if there was an emergency.

Q brought the bowl and rope to the bed, noting the tense way Bond glanced at the rope. Without commenting, Q set the bowl down on the bedside table. Then he started uncoiling the rope, which he’d neatly wrapped for storage months ago, before Alec had somewhat unintentionally moved in.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do,” he said, focusing on freeing one end of the rope. He knelt up on the bed beside Bond. “This isn’t a test of your endurance. If I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, I need you to tell me to stop. Otherwise, I might make this worse. Can you please do that, James?”

“Touching makes me uncomfortable right now, Q,” Bond said wryly. “That’s the whole reason for this. But I will tell you if it’s not helping, or becoming too much.” He watched the rope in Q’s hands for a moment before sitting up and pulling Q into a strong embrace. He didn’t try to kiss or even lick Q’s skin, merely held him tight. “Thank you,” he said quietly from where he’d tucked his face in Q’s neck. Then he released Q and lay down stiffly on the bed, reaching up to grasp the headboard.

Thinking a back massage would be a better start, Q was tempted to tell him to roll over, until he realised Bond needed to see him. So he remained silent and moved up to wrap the rope loosely around Bond’s wrists several times. Then he twisted the short end around the loops, between his wrists, tightening the loops and drawing his wrists together. He folded the short end of the rope in half and knotted it to the other end, leaving a long tail. One tug on the tail and the knot would come free. He used the same type of knot to fasten the rope to the headboard.

“This will free you from the headboard,” he said, putting the long piece of rope in Bond’s left hand. He put the shorter tail in his right, saying, “And this will free your wrists.”

Bond nodded and, to Q’s surprise, didn’t purposefully let go of the ties, choosing instead to grip them so tightly that his knuckles were white. He gave an experimental tug of his bindings, and when they didn’t pull free, did it again hard enough to creak the bed. When he still didn’t come free, he nodded. “Perfect.”

“I told you about the first database I ever programmed,” Q said, keeping his voice light and smooth. He took the massage oil out of the bowl and dripped a few drops into his palm to test the temperature. Finding it suitably warm, he poured more into his cupped hand before he set the bottle back into the water. “There’s nothing fun about databases, though. Game programming is another matter altogether. Did you ever play _Crystal Cavern_? Or it was sometimes called _Adventure_?” he asked as he smoothed the oil over both hands.

“I’ve never been much of a video game player,” Bond said, voice perfectly and deceptively calm. They could have been having a conversation over dinner at one of the fish and chips places Bond favoured. “Well, I have become recently addicted to that puzzle game you downloaded onto my mobile.”

Q set his hands on Bond’s chest, just below his collarbones, feeling the tension. “This wasn’t a graphical game. It was text based,” he said, running his hands down. Bond’s heart was racing, but he seemed to be in perfect control of himself. “It gave a scenario, and then allowed the user free text input, within certain parameters. You’ve heard of _Zork_?”

“No,” Bond said tightly. “Though I did have a friend in SBS who was addicted to what sounds like the same thing. He’d type in commands to move and read what his surroundings looked like, that sort of thing. He tried to get me to play, but all I could think was that I didn’t have nearly enough imagination for it.”

“You’re wrong. Otherwise, the field support team would never be able to guide you on a mission,” Q said lightly as he moved his hands up. The oil changed the texture of Bond’s skin in a distracting way, and Q decided that they really should do this more often — though without the rope. As he started applying gentle pressure with his fingertips, he said, “The game I did was small, with only a hundred or so decision points, but it generated a new configuration every time you loaded. That was the clever bit.”

As Q’s fingertips moved against Bond’s skin, he froze — he stopped talking, stopped shifting, stopped breathing. He tipped his head to watch, eyes locked on Q’s face. “Configuration?” he finally asked, breath coming out in a quick rush.

Calmly, Q continued the massage, saying, “The player started at the door to a building. You could go inside, examine the building, look in the mailbox, go down the path, or go around back. Each choice led to a different result. Sometimes the door was locked, and you had to find a key. Sometimes there was mail in the mailbox — or the key would be hidden in there. It randomised the experience.”

Bond stiffened, then gave an experimental roll of his body, from shoulders to hips, to press up into Q’s hands. “What was the point of the game?” he asked, voice tight.

Q laughed softly and started moving back down Bond’s body, following the lines of his muscles. He’d put on weight since his rescue, but not quite enough. Q had hardly touched him since then, making this uncomfortably new. “To prove my randomisation algorithm wouldn’t break logic by having the path behind the house lead to the mailbox or similar inconsistencies. I could have hand-programmed all possible iterations and restrictions, but that’s work. A good programmer doesn’t do work. He teaches the computer how to do the work for him.”

Bond chuckled, the sound fractionally freer of tension that had been there earlier. “Is that what you’re doing at MI6?”

“Mmm. Why do you think I specifically sought out a trainer from Anderson’s lineage? What I do with computers, she does with her clients. I had to learn the” — he paused thoughtfully, moving his hands down Bond’s ribs — “people aspect of it.”

Bond sighed, watching Q’s hands as best he could. “By which you mean looking at the tells, not the resulting behaviours?” He let his head drop back, and as soon as Q started speaking, he let his eyes flutter closed.

“By finding the courage to not just notice them, but to _act_ on them.” Q moved down one side of Bond’s body, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the soft skin over his hipbone. He was still too thin. Q _needed_ to help him heal and be strong. He hid his feelings, though, and kept his voice calm and steady as he said, “It’s very easy to be an employee — to do as you’re told and never take initiative. To never take risks. And it’s easy to go the other way — to _think_ you know what’s best, though really you’re acting without all the information, and you end up making things worse. I’m teaching my employees to find a balance. I don’t care if they know how to properly crimp ends onto network cables —” He paused, then looked up to meet Bond’s eyes with a quick grin. “Well, all right. I do. Feel free to shoot anyone who doesn’t learn.”

“I’m sure if anyone can find a nonlethal way for me to punish your techs for you, it would be you. A water spray bottle doesn’t quite have the same punch as a taser gun — perhaps something in the middle?” He let out a huff of a laugh, but when Q’s hands drifted down over Bond’s abdomen, over a thick mass of scar tissue, his breath caught and he froze.

Still casually, Q said, “Oh, no. If they can’t even crimp a network cable, I’ll banish them to the front desk. I have a list of people I’ll be transferring or sacking if I don’t see dramatic improvement in the next week or two, once I no longer need warm bodies.” He didn’t hurry to move away from the new scar, but he did keep inching his fingers down Bond’s body. “I also need to work with Danielle on rewriting the job descriptions for the twenty-first century.”

“Oh?” Bond asked, voice thick with tension. He’d closed his eyes again and turned his head to the side, not looking at Q, shoulders taut with the effort of holding still. “Were Boothroyd’s descriptions that bad?”

“Just outdated. Please don’t misunderstand,” Q said, trying not to tense up as he moved over Bond’s hip to his thigh. “Major Boothroyd was an excellent executive. It was a privilege to work for him. But the enemies MI6 faces have changed, and obviously we weren’t ready to face this new threat.”

Bond nodded without looking at Q. “He was an excellent engineer,” he said almost absently. “You should probably go back up to my chest. They left my legs alone.”

“James.” Q looked up at him, heartbroken at the tension — the fear — he could see. He didn’t move his hands, but kept trying to ease the locked-tight muscle in Bond’s thigh. “Do you _need_ me to touch your scars? If not, let me help you relax for a little bit. Not an endurance test, remember?”

“It’s fine,” Bond said after a moment. “Keep going.” He made a conscious effort to relax his muscles, using a breathing exercise Q recognized from Interrogation Resistance training. “Have you had any resignations yet, sparing you the effort of re-organising?”

Q couldn’t hide his embarrassed flinch. “I... Well, I inappropriately lost my temper once, and there was an incident. The... He complained to Personnel, and requested a transfer. I haven’t seen him since.”

“ _You_ lost your temper?”

Q nodded, avoiding Bond’s eyes. “It was right after the attack on headquarters. Someone tried to get in my way, citing regulations. I’d been awake for days, and I hadn’t heard from Alec about you...” He ran his hands lower down Bond’s leg, still massaging gently. “I took away the binder of regulations and lit it on fire.”

“You —” Bond cut off with a startled laugh. It was deep and loud and genuine, and Q looked up at him with a hopeful smile as he felt Bond’s body relax.

“You’re not upset?” he asked, a teasing note creeping into his voice. “It was terribly unprofessional of me.”

“It was bloody brilliant, is what it was.” Bond chuckled, finally opening his eyes to grin up at Q. “I’d say I’m a bad influence on you, but that strength of commitment has always been there. It’s one of the things I love about you.” His smile turned soft, and it didn’t fade as he let his head fall back again.

Q forgot what he was doing — even forgot, for a moment, that Bond’s hands were bound. He twisted and crawled on top of him to take hold of his face and kiss him, almost dizzy with the surge of affection. “You’re a terrible influence, and please _never stop_ ,” he whispered.

Bond froze for only a heartbeat. Then he gave a quick tug on the ropes to free himself. Instead of pushing Q away, he wrapped his arms around him and held him tight to his body. He turned his head to nuzzle at Q’s neck, breathing in deeply. “You’re bloody perfect,” he muttered, lifting his knees and planting his feet flat on the bed to trap Q on top of him.

The worry locked inside Q melted away. He got his hands under Bond’s head and shoulders, indulging in holding him close for the first time in far too long. “I love you,” he said. “I love you _so much_ , James.”

“Thank god for that, or you’d be trading me in for a better, less broken model by now,” Bond said with a chuckle, laying soft kisses on Q’s jaw. “PTSD would have been a valid reason for breaking the original contract, I’m sure.”

Q lifted his head and met Bond’s eyes. “I won’t leave you. Not ever,” he promised. “I’m yours, James.”

Bond’s sigh was warm and satisfied, and he pressed Q tight to his body, leaning into Q’s hands underneath him. He dragged his hands up and down in slow motions on Q’s back. “You don’t regret it, knowing now what it can be like sometimes? Even if something like this only happens once every three years, that’s a lot to handle over the course of a lifetime. The extended absence, the death of people we care about, this,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the ropes.

Q got comfortable on top of Bond. “Have I made your life better?”

“Incalculably,” Bond said instantly. “I’m alive again because of you. What happened in Venice — I never thought I’d be truly human again. But because of you, even this ridiculous flinching doesn’t have to mean anything to us, in the long run. It’s just physical. And we’ll fix it.” He chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “And now that you’re running me in the field, I bet you’ll come up with a way to not let me disappear for months at a time, anyway.”

Smiling, Q kissed Bond’s cheek, content. “Then that’s all I want.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Saturday, 15 December 2012**

From the street, the property seemed to be a townhouse like any other, albeit set in Kensington rather than some more modest borough. The square white facade was embellished with columns and decorative stonework over the windows and at the corners. A black fence and tall hedges gave a measure of privacy.

Bond drove his temporary BMW to the automatic gate. It opened before he even had to tap the brake, and then it closed behind the car’s taillights as he drove up the short gravel drive to the house. Three servants met the car, two with umbrellas and a valet to park the car. Q gave Bond a very slight smile, adjusted the chain-maille collar to hang over his tie, and allowed himself to be escorted around the car to meet with Bond.

They were shown inside, coats whisked away by a valet and maid. It was nothing Bond hadn’t seen before, but this time, even the collars worn over their uniforms failed to provoke the same instinctive reaction he’d had the first time he’d realised what they meant. He recalled what Q had told him of slaves who chose to serve in the last remaining aristocratic households, a service that rarely if ever involved sex at all. As he watched the household slaves perform their tasks, he didn’t feel any rage on their behalf, nor disgust, nor even anxiety. Through the stories Q had told him, he’d begun to understand how much the Marketplace gave to people like Q, people who would otherwise go looking to fulfil their needs elsewhere, without a framework to provide at least some measure of security.

They were met in a parlour by a familiar woman; Bond immediately recognised her from the ship as Lady Southerby. She was tall, blonde hair going to grey at the temples, dressed in a suit that would have fit in at any office, except for the eye-catching scarlet colour and the deadly heels.

She smiled warmly and met Bond at the edge of the Persian rug. “Mr Sterling. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“Lady Southerby,” he replied with his best charming smile and a quick but firm shake of hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. I’m so sorry we never met onboard _Le Nautille_.”

“Please, call me Angelique. My husband’s the one with the public school background,” she said, gesturing him to the elegant grouping of sofas and armchairs. Bond went to the sofa and glanced back at Q, who was waiting by the entrance. Before Bond could beckon him, he walked over, giving Angelique a slight bow, and sat beside Bond. Angelique watched with only a hint of surprise before she turned her smile back on Bond. “Something to drink?”

“Please,” Bond said as he adjusted his jacket. He looked over at Q curiously. “Q?”

Bond recognised the flash of quick consideration in Q’s expression — Bond’s question had been unexpected — and Bond realised he’d committed a social blunder, but he didn’t care. In fact, he was amused to find that his attitude about ownership had changed completely; what he needed from Q was companionship, and to hell with other owners if they thought he wasn’t doing it right.

“Thank you, no,” Q said with a brief, polite smile to them both.

“So, I _was_ going to ask if there were any last-minute issues you needed to have addressed, but I don’t think that’s necessary,” Angelique said, looking at them both with sharp, narrowed eyes. A faint smile played at her lips. “But for form’s sake, let’s. Any problems?” she asked as the maid who’d met them in the foyer entered, now carrying a tray. She brought a cut crystal tumbler of fine amber scotch to Bond first, setting it on the table before him with a little curtsy. Then she set down Angelique’s drink with another curtsy and left the room silently.

Bond picked up the tumbler and sniffed appreciatively, then gave Q a pleased smile. Of course Q had told them what Bond preferred to drink. “No last minute issues,” Bond said, turning back to Angelique. “Q impresses me more every day.”

“Excellent,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased. “I know Imala’s gone through all the details, but since it takes an act of God to get her on a plane, and Parker isn’t always available, my husband and I are happy to act as your local representatives. So call or email any time. And feel free to socialise.” Her smile reappeared, bright and charismatic. “You dropped off the map. Usually most owners try to attend at least a couple of events every year.”

“I spend a great deal of time traveling internationally for my employer,” Bond said, resting his hand at the base of Q’s neck and rubbing soothing circles there with his thumb. “I’m afraid such events are nearly impossible for me to attend.”

“It can’t be easy, all that travel, with the way the world is these days,” she said, her smile turning wry. “I hope business is worth it.”

“I like to think of it as doing my part, contributing to the GDP of our country,” Bond said just as wryly, sipping at his drink.

Angelique nodded, looking directly at Q for a moment. “All right. One last review of the contract, and then we can see to the signing.” She rose, and Q stood at almost the same time.

Bond set his drink on the table and stood as well, looking between Q and Angelique, trying to determine what he’d missed. “Excellent, thank you.”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. Q first, please,” she said, and headed for the hallway.

Q looked at Bond for permission, a faint, reassuring smile on his face.

Bond nodded and watched them disappear down the hallway. He knew he had absolutely no reason to be nervous. He’d paid his fee, he’d abided by the terms of the first contract, and, as far as Angelique was concerned, he’d been a model owner. Even if Lady Southerby had an objection, Bond was certain that Q would still choose him.

 

~~~

 

Q reviewed the contract, though he knew that the specifics, for the first time in almost a decade, were meaningless. Bond wasn’t going to break any of the terms not because they were spelled out but because that wasn’t who he was. Q had even considered doing away with the contract entirely, but he owed it to himself to make this one demand. He could be in a relationship, but he wanted to _belong_ to someone. To Bond. And he couldn’t give up the dream that his spotter and earliest trainer had offered him over ten years ago.

Besides, there was the very practical reality that Bond was _terrible_ with relationships. At least having a set of written ground rules gave them a good place to start.

“It seems in order, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the pen.

She put out a hand, and he froze. “Eyes up,” she said. When he straightened and met her gaze, she continued, “Is this what you want? I have to ask. If you say no, you can leave without ever having to see him again. You’ll be safe.”

Q understood. Unnecessary as the question was, he appreciated her concern. He’d have to mention this to Bond later, as one more example of how the Marketplace had been Q’s safety net for so long.

“I’m certain, ma’am,” he answered unhesitatingly. “There’s nothing in the world that I want more than to be his.”

She pulled her hand back and gestured for him to take the pen. After he signed the three copies of the contract, she said, “Congratulations, then. I know Parker must be very proud of you.”

Heart pounding as he looked down at the three contracts, Q smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Now go invite your owner in, and wait for us in the parlour,” she said with a smile of her own.

Q gave her a brief bow and left, making his way back to the front room. Lady Southerby’s maid opened the door for him, and closed it behind him once he’d entered.

Bond was sitting on the sofa again, looking very relaxed, sipping at his drink. He’d been looking out the window when Q came in, but now he turned his gaze to search over Q, scanning him from head to toe. “That was fast.”

“The contract is in order. It was only a formality,” Q said, unable to hide his smile. “She’s ready for you to sign.”

Bond stood, set down his drink, and tugged at his cuffs to straighten them. “All right,” he said easily, mouth quirking in an almost-smile. He walked up to Q and spoke very quietly in his ear. “You should have had me practising signing as Richard Sterling,” he whispered with a chuckle. Then he stepped back and the quirk became an actual smile. “Pen to paper. How archaic.”

“It’s tradition, Richard,” Q scolded gently, amused that they were still keeping up the deception regarding Bond’s identity. Of course, it was necessary. He held back a smile, wondering what Lady Southerby — by all rumour, an incredibly demanding owner — would think if she knew she was facilitating the sale of an upper level MI6 executive to one of its senior field agents.

He showed Bond to Lady Southerby’s office, where he knocked and then held the door open. Bond squared his shoulders and stepped through, a genial greeting falling easily from him as he walked inside. Q closed the door and went back to the parlour, where he found the maid had entered to pick up the discarded glasses.

With a quick glance at the closed door, she lowered her voice and asked, “Is it true? Did you just...”

Q let himself smile proudly. “Yes, we did.”

 

~~~

 

“When Alec gets back from his mission, we could bring him to one of the Marketplace parties, you know,” Q said as Bond turned the car into the underground carpark. “He expressed his interest a few months ago.” Then Q laughed and leaned affectionately against Bond’s shoulder, careful not to interfere with his hand on the shift lever. “And my first thought is that he’d damned well better get someone who can pass a background check. My god, James. This job is corrupting me.”

Bond laughed and turned his head to kiss Q’s hair. He’d had no idea that the lifetime contract was something that Q wanted so badly. After mentioning the contract while still onboard _Le Nautille_ , Q had never brought it up again. Even now, he hadn’t expressed any strong feeling on the topic. But all night he’d been incredibly happy, more free with his smiles and laughter than Bond had ever seen him. The contract had been signed, the paperwork for the civil partnership was going through, Q was ridiculously happy, and Bond could once again trust himself to be alone with Q and have it end with both of them being satisfied.

He was _really_ looking forward to tonight.

“I think Alec would be interested in going, but I’m not particularly keen on it. You probably shouldn’t be, either. If I ran into that green-eyed bastard again, I’d probably be quite enthusiastic about informing him of your new permanent status.” He cast a mischievous look at Q. “ _With_ Alec’s assistance.”

Q shook his head, amused. “He was American, James. He probably wouldn’t be here at all,” he said as Bond pulled into his designated spot. “And the Marketplace was there for me at a time when I was completely lost. I had _nothing_ until I was spotted.”

Bond put the car in park and shut the engine. Then he turned to face Q, smiling gently. “Oh, believe me, at this point I’m nothing but grateful to them,” he said, dragging his callused thumb along Q’s jaw. “And from what Angelique explained, they’re still there for you. Just because we have this new status doesn’t mean you have to give anything up, you know. You’re free to return for reunions, training, social visits, whatever you like.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Well, not _whatever_ you like, but you know what I mean,” he added, barely managing to hide his smile.

Q undid his seatbelt and leaned over so he could kiss Bond’s cheek. “If I go to a reunion, it’ll only be so I can brag about you to people who will understand,” he teased. “Already, people are talking about us. Lady Southerby’s maid asked if it was true.”

“You’re the talk of the Marketplace?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Feel free to brag as you like. I _am_ impressive, aren’t I?” he said with shrug, unbuckling his own seatbelt, turning his head to look out the window in an effort to hide his smirk.

Laughing, Q got out of the car and came around to get Bond’s door. He held out his hands, and as Bond got out, Q pulled Bond into a quick kiss. “You forgot modest. Or was that infuriating? I always get those confused, when thinking about you.”

Taking advantage of Q’s exceptional mood, Bond grabbed Q by the hips and pressed him against the side of the car. Then he pulled him into a full body kiss, guiding Q’s hands to rest on his back under the jacket.

Q relaxed into the kiss, hands resting lightly enough that Bond could step back, though his fingertips dipped into the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t try to hide or push Bond away, even though the carpark wasn’t private. When Bond moved from Q’s mouth to his jaw, Q said softly, “If you’d like, I can buy another set of cuffs to keep in the car.”

“I’m getting better,” Bond said just as quietly. “Because of you.”

“I’m yours, James.” Q said, fingers pressing into Bond’s back as he bared his throat.

“Yes, you are,” Bond said with satisfaction before taking advantage of the offered skin. He kissed and licked before he bit, delighting in the feel of Q’s shiver against him. But even as both their bodies were trying to convince him how much fun it would be to have a go in the carpark, Bond didn’t want to risk getting caught and subsequently evicted. He _hated_ moving. So after one more deep kiss, he stepped back and released Q, only to take his hand. “Too bloody tempting,” he muttered.

Q followed Bond away, pausing only to shut the car door. “I’m sorry, James,” he blatantly lied; Bond could hear the way he was smirking. He slid a hand into Bond’s coat pocket, took the car keys, and turned on the alarm.

Bond laughed and tugged him toward the lift, saying, “I have a surprise for you tonight, to celebrate.”

Q’s eyes lit up with delight. He pressed the call button and then leaned against the wall, casually resting his hands behind his back. He gave Bond an enticing smile. “Would you like me to try and convince you to reveal the surprise, James?”

“Absolutely,” Bond invited, moving in to silence Q with a hard, rough kiss that demanded Q’s surrender. He gave it willingly, eagerly, and only stopped when the lift doors opened. Once they were in the lift, Bond put his own back to the wall and let Q touch and kiss, revelling in the absolute lack of fear or anxiety he felt.

By the time the lift doors opened again, they were both breathless and flushed with desire. Q’s hair was wrecked from Bond’s hands. As Bond led him out into the hallway, he tried to compose himself, without much success.

“What’s that?” Q asked as they got to the door. He took down the Post-it stuck above the latch. “We have a package. I’ll fetch it,” he said, swiping his card to unlock the door.

Bond took the Post-it from Q and raised his eyebrows at Q. “I think I’d rather fetch it, if it means you’ll be naked in the tub when I get back,” he said with a grin.

A hint of colour crept into Q’s cheeks. “Yes, James,” he said, pushing open the door to the flat. The alarm beeped, and he closed the door; a moment later, the alarm stopped beeping.

Bond chuckled as he turned away from the door to head back downstairs. He thought about taking the stairs just for the exercise — he still wasn’t quite up to his former strength, despite rigorous training at the new headquarters and sparring with the new partner Q had found for him — but the thought of Q waiting for him in the tub had him choosing the faster option of the lift.

He headed to the doorman’s desk, not bothering to hide his rare happy smile, and handed over the Post-it. “We have a package, Mike,” he said cheerfully.

The doorman, who was much more used to Bond’s even-keeled attitude, regarded him with something between suspicion and confusion. “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned to pull a large manila envelope free from the shelf behind him. “Only, I think there may be some confusion, sir. It’s not addressed to you, or your... uh...”

“Partner,” Bond said evenly but firmly. “If it’s not addressed to me or Q, who is it for?”

The doorman looked down at the envelope, then handed it over. “No one who lives here,” he said with a shrug.

Bond took the envelope with a frown, which deepened when he recognized Q’s birth name on the label. “It’s ours,” he said. “Thank you, Mike.”

On his way back up to their flat, Bond had a brief moment of indecision; should he check the contents first, or simply hand it over to Q? There were very, very few people who could put that name to Q’s face, and even fewer who knew how to find Q at all. If Bond had to guess, he’d assume it was the dreaded politician father.

Q’s lifetime contract had ceded virtually everything to Bond’s control, including Q’s beloved computers, but _not_ Q’s privacy over his past. Because of that, Bond erred on the side of discretion and didn’t open the envelope. When it came to Q’s family, Bond understood why Q had remained mostly silent for so long. If Q saw his life as nothing more than a string of contracts, it wouldn’t make sense for him to reveal anything about his family’s painful history to any of his owners. In that world, the owners were temporary.

But this wasn’t a temporary arrangement anymore. On the surface, it was an unenforceable contract between a voluntary slave and his owner, but it meant so much more to them both. It was an agreement that they wouldn’t allow secrets or misunderstandings to come between them, ever again. It was a matter of respect and, as Q had said so long ago on the ship, a matter of honour. Q had proven as much the day he’d invited Bond to the cafe to meet Z — the day he’d really given himself to Bond completely, contract or not.

Finally, the lift doors opened, and Bond wasted no time letting himself in, activating the alarm, and shedding his overcoat and shoes. He took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie as he walked to the bedroom.

Bond’s suggestions carried the weight of orders, no matter how playful the mood. Q was in the ensuite, filling the tub. A glass of scotch waited on the dresser where Bond usually put his wallet and watch.

Bond heard a quiet splash as he stripped off the rest of his clothes. When he went into the ensuite, carrying the envelope tucked under his arm, he found Q already in the oversized tub, once again on his knees, waiting patiently as the water rose around his legs.

“God, you’re gorgeous like that,” Bond said softly. He slid the bench out from under the vanity to act as a table for the scotch and the envelope.

“Thank you, James,” he said quietly, lifting his head just enough to look up at Bond through his fringe.

Need shot through Bond, and he had to close his eyes for a moment to calm his breathing. He turned away, and his gaze fell on the envelope. He had plans for tonight, but he didn’t want this hanging over them.

He walked over to the tub and leaned down to kiss Q, but didn’t get in yet. “The package is in your birth name,” he said quietly, without pulling away, after the kiss.

Q’s expression went blank. He looked at the envelope and bit his lip for a moment, something he only did when he was very distracted. Then he turned to meet Bond’s eyes again and carefully asked, “Would you like me to deal with it?”

With a sigh, Bond climbed into the tub behind Q. He pushed and pulled and tucked long, thin limbs, not caring how much water he was splashing, until they were both settled in a comfortable recline. He ran a hand through Q’s hair and kissed his ear. “You can burn it for all I’m concerned,” he said with a shrug. “Or you can go read it in privacy — or in here, where I can do my best to distract you,” he said, bending his head for a bite on Q’s shoulder, though Q’s reaction was subdued. Surprised, Bond pressed his fingers to Q’s jaw and turned his head to better see his expression. Q had retreated into his training, hiding his thoughts and feelings behind an absolutely neutral mask, and Bond frowned in concern. “Would you like me to read it first?” he offered. “If it’s not worthy of your attention, I’ll simply shred it for you.”

“It’s from my father,” Q said, glancing at the envelope. “He’s persistent. He won’t stop.”

“Q,” Bond said firmly, reaching up to tug at Q’s collar. “You are a branch head at MI6. A bloody executive and at the top of the organisational food chain. On top of that, you and I are about to be civil partners. You are far, far more important than he is, and not just to me.” He tipped Q’s head up a little further to meet Q’s eyes. “We can handle it.”

Q shook his head. Bond could feel his heart racing, and his body tensed as he tried to keep his breathing steady. “This — _us_ —” For the first time in Bond’s memory, Q pulled away from him, closing his eyes tightly. “When he found out about everything — He came to my school. He was there when I got back from class. He found everything. Flyers, magazines. He — I — I _can’t_.”

Cursing himself for making the wrong decision about timing, Bond leaned forward just enough to kiss Q’s neck, then climbed back out of the tub. “All right,” he said, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist. “Then you won’t have to. I’ll deal with it.” He walked back to the bench to pick up the envelope and the drink, tucked the envelope back under his arm, and ran his hand through Q’s hair. “I’ll be right back.”

Someone else would have protested. Q just stared at him, curled up against the side of the tub, and gave a slight, jerky nod.

Bond kissed his hair one more time before he left the bathroom, taking the envelope and his drink out to the kitchen table. He left them there long enough to retrieve his laptop and mobile, in case he needed them, and sat down with a frown of determination. He wondered if this was cosmically terrible timing, or if their public registration for a civil partnership and Q’s recent promotion were what had attracted the attention of Q’s father. Even worse, M was dead now, unable to provide the fiery, fierce protection Bond knew he could have counted on her for. Mallory had supported him when he’d taken M to Scotland, and hadn’t fired him the way he’d once been hinting he’d wanted to, but he was still an unknown quantity.

But Bond was not without his resources. He’d made enough friends of desperate politicians that he had favours he could call in if he needed to. And if all else failed, he and Alec could make quick work of the bastard.

With a grim smile at the thought, Bond tore open the envelope. Inside was a single page of thick linen paper, printed — not even hand-written. Worse, it looked like it had been dictated to a secretary, complete with formal address blocks. It didn’t even begin with something approaching affection, such as ‘Dear son’; it just had Q’s first name and a colon.

_I am disappointed to hear of your recent promotion through a memo rather than a personal message. Given our mutual positions in the government, I think it reasonable to expect a courteous note from my own son._

_Furthermore, my initial hope that you had put aside your questionable habits in favour of a proper career was obviously misplaced, as I have learned you intend to legally involve yourself in a controversial partnership. While I have no objection in general to the laws that are currently under debate, I expect you of all people to understand what this will do to your career. I urge you not to follow your sister’s path and make a spectacle of yourself._

_I have spent a great deal of time trying to understand where your mother and I went wrong in raising you and your sister. I can only imagine it was in allowing you the free rein you enjoyed as a child. Your choice to go to that American school is the obvious consequence. Now that you’ve returned home, hopefully you will come to your senses soon._

_Finally, you have yet to contact either me or your mother. I expect to hear from you immediately, as does your mother._

Beneath the terse ‘Regards’ at the bottom, he’d scrawled his signature.

Bond selfishly let himself indulge in a few moments of well-placed rage; he barely managed to keep himself from picking up the phone to call Alec, even though he was out of the country, to do something _now_. Not only had Q’s father cruelly insulted Q and his unknown sister; he’d made it perfectly clear that he was only interested in Q as the new Quartermaster of MI6 — a politically useful contact — by failing to even hint at concern that Q might have been injured or worse in the bombing.

First things first. Bond needed to know more about the man, his political standing, and what sort of influence he had. After a moment’s consideration, he decided to email Danielle. She adored Q.

He phrased the request itself in the most professional language possible and barely resisted the urge to send an attached scan of the letter itself. He could have a chat with Danielle about the problem and possible solutions when he went in to work on Monday, but he needed the rest of the weekend to think. It would be tricky — Bond had to find a way to sever all ties between father and son and prevent the father from ever seeking revenge of any sort. Q was fairly well protected in his current position, but that didn’t mean the bastard couldn’t pull petty, vindictive bullshit just to make Q miserable.

Then, of course, there was also the question of Q’s twin, Z. Though Bond had no living relatives, he had Alec; he knew what it was like to share that sort of connection. From within MI6, Q had used his position to monitor and protect not only Bond himself but Alec as well — and at a time when they still didn’t seem to care much for each other. Q had done it not because he particularly felt any affection for Alec, but because Alec was the closest thing Bond had to a brother. Then, while Bond had been captured, Q had gone to his twin to request assistance to find Bond. The more Bond thought about, the more he realised the connection between himself and Z wasn’t just the tenuous tie of a contract.

He would damn well make sure that any action he took against the twins’ father wouldn’t serve just Q, but Z as well. All Bond had to do was find the right button to push. And _everyone_ had their button. It was only a matter of time and research to find Q’s father’s.

Once the email was sent, Bond gave himself over to reading the letter a second time. The words _‘your sister_ ’ in particular jumped out at Bond — especially because the note made no mention of Z. Was Z such an outcast that he’d been completely disowned by their parents? And where was Q’s sister in all this? Neither Z nor Q had mentioned her.

Bond shoved the letter back in its envelope, and brought it with him back into the bedroom. He folded it and put it in his safe, which Q only went into if Bond asked him to fetch something. Then he walked back into the bathroom.

Still in the bathtub, Q looked up at him uncertainly. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your responsibility.”

Bond gave Q his best reassuring smile, shed his towel, and stepped back into the tub. “ _You_ are my responsibility. And the problem is most efficiently dealt with by me. I don’t mind in the slightest.” He slid in behind Q, not bothering to suppress his smile. He enjoyed the thought of having something tangible to do for Q. He knew Q didn’t expect anything in return for being the glue and duct tape that held Bond together, but privately, it made Bond feel better to think he might be returning the favour.

Q leaned back against Bond’s body, fingers curling around his forearms. “I should be able to do this,” he said softly. “I can deal with _anything_ , but... the last time I saw him, just before graduation, it was bad. Very bad.”

The slow curl of anger that Bond had managed to suppress for the sake of efficiency started to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. “Would you like to tell me?” he asked quietly, holding Q tightly.

Q was silent for a few seconds. When the heating system kicked in and air blew through the vent, he twitched in surprise. His fingers tightened on Bond’s arms. “It’s... very easy to support” — he made a little gesture, betraying his inner tension — “equality and rights and all that. It’s something else when it’s... family. And... then the rest of what he found out... Not about the Marketplace, but everything before that. The... clubs and the parties...”

Bond nodded, closing his eyes against the visions of what Q must have been doing to satisfy his deep desire for submission, service, and pain in environments where the experience would have been almost wholly sexual. Q’s father sounded like a judgemental and cold bastard at the best of times; his reaction must have been horrific for Q to still be scarred like this. He gave himself a moment to wonder what it had been like for Z; possibly worse, if he had left the family even earlier than Q. _Except that Q lived to please people he cared about,_ a vicious inner voice reminded Bond.

Bond held his breath until the pointless rage could abate once more. “You said he forced you into counselling,” he finally said, rubbing his thumbs gently over Q’s skin as he held him.

“He _tried_ , but I was over there, not here. I went once.” Q shook his head and held onto Bond more tightly. “It was a mistake. I never went back. I disappeared, just like Z. Built a new identity. Changed my school records so I could go to CalTech instead of coming back here.” Q sighed. “I don’t want him to understand. He’ll _never_ understand,” he said softly. “I just want him to leave us alone.”

“I understand,” Bond said, kissing Q’s ear. “And don’t worry about him. I’ll deal with it.” In his experience, all politicians had dirty secrets. Bond hoped to have the issue resolved before signing the paperwork for their partnership.

“I’m sorry this happened today. I never expected he’d find us. I thought... He found my MI6 email address some time ago. I thought that would be enough. But now he’ll share _this_ address with my mother. And it’s Christmas.” He sighed, fingers twitching on Bond’s arms. “I’ll speak to building security. They can refuse packages from them.”

“If that’s what you want,” Bond said, trying to parse Q’s tone. “If you’d like to see your mother without your father’s interference, I can arrange it for you,” he added carefully.

“No.” Q tensed so abruptly that water splashed. He turned and looked at Bond. “Please.”

“Whatever you want, love,” Bond said reassuringly, stroking a hand through Q’s hair. Perhaps he wouldn’t limit his search to the father only, he decided as he held Q tight and pressed kisses to his shoulder. It was bad enough imagining Q being the target of one parent’s distaste and self-righteous indignation; the fact that Q had to deal with _two_ infuriated Bond — though it did make certain avenues of revenge easier.

Some of the tension eased from Q’s body. He turned sideways so he could rest his cheek against Bond’s chest, ducking lower into the water. “I think they’re divorced, because of what happened. She... found religion,” he said neutrally.

Bond frowned, wondering if Q’s father blamed that on Q as well. He closed his eyes and refrained from responding until the murderous anger had a chance to lessen after running its course. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, inwardly thinking he’d have to give Danielle Q’s mother’s name as well.

“They...” He shook his head. “You can imagine it well enough. They couldn’t understand. I wasn’t going to meet a ‘nice girl’ and settle down properly. I never _wanted_ a ‘nice girl’.”

“Which worked out well for me, given that I’m neither,” Bond said with a faint smile. Bond couldn’t imagine the hurt of it; his parents had died far too early in life for him to fully understand the weight of parental disappointment. But he could picture it: cruel accusations, disappointment that Q wasn’t exactly what they wanted him to be, anger that Q would be useless as a political tool.

“I could never figure out _why_.” The words came out softly, almost a whisper, as if Q were talking to himself. “Why I wasn’t normal. Like everyone else. It was always there, inside me, for as long as I could remember. I _knew_ , and I hid it, even from Z.”

Bond held Q quietly, all too able to picture what it might have been like for him: desperately eager to please, but afraid that revealing himself would do nothing but earn him disapproval. Even worse, he had been proven right, apparently.

“It wasn’t until school that I found other people who understood — people who were like me. But when _they_ found out, it didn’t matter. We were _all_ sick and in need of help and not normal...” Q’s hands tightened on Bond’s arm, nails digging in.

“Z, too?” Bond asked.

Q lifted his head slightly. “Not for the same reasons, of course, though I was blamed for that, too, from the first day I let him wear my clothes.” He sank down lower in the tub, clinging to Bond, and shook his head. “They _wanted_ a perfect son and daughter. They resented that we failed them in that.”

 _Son and daughter_. Z. That explained the ‘sister’ comment in the letter. Q’s not-exactly-identical-twin had been born female. Z must have undergone some surgery, and now was perfectly comfortable in his skin as far as Bond could tell. He felt another surge of hate for the man he hadn’t met; it was the worst kind of oppression for Q’s father to continue to referring to Z as a sister.

“Z left when they wanted him to start oestrogen therapy, all because the doctor assumed he could be made female.”

Bond leaned down to kiss at Q’s neck, not wanting to interrupt the flow of conversation once it had started. He made a low, curious noise — quiet enough that Q could ignore it if he wanted to.

“He’s intersex. His first surgery was right after we were born. It was easier” — the word came out in an uncharacteristically vicious snap — “to ‘make’ him female.” Q took a deep, shaky, angry breath. “Just like they tried to ‘fix’ me.”

“You don’t need to be ‘fixed’,” Bond snapped viciously before he could control his reaction. His fingers tightened on Q’s skin as he struggled to repress the anger that threatened to find an inappropriate target.

Q stayed tense under Bond’s hands. “Don’t I? At least Z’s problems could be blamed on genetics and modern medicine.”

Bond had to stop himself from saying something vicious against Q’s parents, telling himself that children could still love them despite everything. Even if Q didn’t want to see or talk to his mother or father, that didn’t mean he didn’t still secretly wish for their acceptance and approval. There was no reason to add to his distress with a verbal assault on their cruel stupidity. When he finally met them, however...

“You already know my opinion,” Bond said instead. “I think you’re bloody perfect. I’m quite grateful that their ‘normality’” — he spat the word out with disgust — “didn’t rub off on you. Or Z.” Bond was quite familiar with the hurtful accusations of ‘not normal’, and the thought of Q dull-eyed with a life of forced compliance to the status quo was disturbing.

“Are you?” Q curled up a bit tighter. “I know you want a boyfriend. A partner. Not what I want.”

Bond couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him, feeling a tiny sting of hurt bloom at the words. He’d thought they’d moved past this. “ _You_ are what I want and need,” he said quietly, resisting the urge to remind Q that they had a lifetime contract and there was no going back now. “A ‘normal’ person would have left long ago, unable to deal with me. You keep me together in a way that would be impossible for anyone else.” He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Can you imagine what the average person would have done with Alec? Or more importantly, not done?”

Q nodded slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. And I... Today means more to me than you can possibly imagine.”

“You don’t need to feel shame or guilt anymore, Q. You’re needed, wanted, and loved — all concepts your parents seem to have no true understanding of. You’re in the relationship you’ve always wanted. You’re an executive at MI6,” Bond said firmly.

“An executive at MI6,” he said a bit flatly. “Of everything I am, that’s hardly my priority, except for how it lets me care for you.”

“I know. I never expected that you’d get promoted like that. I wanted you to run my missions. That’s it. I never thought I’d have to share.” Bond shifted and pulled himself and Q a little deeper in the water. “I’d say you could leave if you want, but I’m too selfish for that. I need you there — for me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Q shook his head again, still tense. “That’s not _who I am_ , James. If you needed me to run an IT department or teach at university or get another PhD, _that_ wouldn’t be what I am, inside. I’m a submissive. I’m _your slave_. And that’s not something I can be openly, or discuss with anyone, or even hear you say, because it’s _not normal_ , but it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know,” Bond assured him. “You don’t think I understand, but I do. I’m an assassin, Q. I’m a cold, ruthless bastard who has spent his entire career hunting people. I have to hide behind a false identity and fake smiles and social interactions where I talk about ‘returns on investment’ and ‘growth potential’ when secretly I’m calculating exits and trying to determine the swiftest method of execution for the people around me.” Bond ducked his head to rest his forehead on Q’s shoulder, revelling in the fact that Q wasn’t flinching away. He would never flinch away. “I hope that you’ll never resent that I’ve made you compromise.”

“And I don’t want you to ever resent... _this_.” Q lifted a hand to the chain around his throat. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem real. It’s like some ridiculous game you’ve agreed to play to indulge me. And at work... It really was very easy to just... take over. I’ve done it before, managing departments and leading projects. I’m _good_ at it. I know how to motivate and I can stand up to almost anyone and it’s all meaningless, without _you_ giving it context. How is that healthy?”

“It’s not unhealthy to have motivation that’s different from what other people think it should be,” Bond finally said.

Still tense, Q pulled away from Bond’s arms and sat up, running one wet hand through his hair to push it back out of his eyes. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend tonight. Why don’t you see if you can relax? I’ll call downstairs and take care of security now.”

Bond took hold of Q’s jaw and met his gaze steadily. “I _am_ relaxed.” He tugged Q back against him, warding off the chill that had followed Q’s absence. He thought about the direction the evening had taken, but he couldn’t quite resent the cold hatred that had settled into his bones for Q’s parents. The timing was inconvenient, but another part of Bond was pleased that he’d be able to deal with the faint but lingering problem that had apparently been hanging over Q’s head since shortly after their return to England.

He’d meant what he’d said about the civil partnership — it was a formality meant only to ensure that Q didn’t fail to receive every benefit legally available to him when Bond eventually died, and to prevent any political manoeuvring against them. The fact was, Bond and Q would probably never celebrate their civil partnership, because it was meaningless to both of them. It was a state contract that could be dissolved at any time. The lifetime contract, however, was something that held meaning for them both.

“There is something I want to talk to you about,” Bond said, thinking of the kit tucked away in his safe. “I’ve decided to take advantage of certain changes to our contract,” Bond said, leaning forward again to kiss Q’s shoulder.

Q frowned in puzzlement, though Bond saw the way he relaxed slightly. “Which changes?”

Bond’s laugh was dark and interested, and he pushed at Q’s shoulders to bend him forward over his knees, baring his back in a beautifully curved arch. He traced a nail up the spine, pressing hard enough to draw a red mark and the lightest hint of pain from Q’s skin. Q shivered, and for the first time since they’d come home, Bond felt like the letter wasn’t tainting Q’s reaction. “Permanent marks,” Bond said in a low growl.

Q shivered again, breath catching, and went still under Bond’s touch. “Yes,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Bond to hear. Then, his voice tense with the spark of interest that had been missing since they’d got into the bath, he said, “Yes, James.”

Bond stopped breathing for a moment, completely overwhelmed by the trust Q never hesitated to show him. Even now, with Bond only a single day free of the debilitating fear of touch that had plagued him for over a month, Q didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Wasn’t afraid. Q trusted Bond entirely; his faith knitted back together some of the shattered pieces of Bond’s humanity.

He curled over Q’s still-arched body and sank his teeth into Q’s neck, just over the spine. Though the interruption had initially blunted his desire, it came back now in full force, and Bond was deeply relieved that he’d prepared everything in advance. Though it obviously hadn’t been planned this way, what Bond had in mind would work beautifully to combat the resurgence of self-doubt that Q had felt at the appearance of his father’s letter. Now, it would serve not just as a mark of the occasion, but a reminder that there was nothing wrong with Q. He and Bond fit together almost perfectly, and that was all that mattered.


	28. Chapter 28

**Saturday, 15 December 2012**

The fact that Bond had spent two months before his capture crossing the globe meant that he’d spent more time in airplanes, trains, and buses than he had actually gathering intel during that time. He’d used the time to his advantage, downloading books and articles of interest to read when he had wi-fi, and reading when he wasn’t the one doing the piloting. As soon as he’d put the plan to secure Q’s services for life into action, he’d begun thinking about this night.

The wedding rings were symbolic mostly for the people who looked at them, not for Q and Bond themselves. And Bond was rather attached to Q’s current collar, so he didn’t have any interest in making a change there as a way to mark the occasion.

For a few days, Bond had thought about the possibility of a tattoo, but a tattoo meant someone _else_ would be marking Q’s skin. Bond had a rudimentary knowledge of tattooing — most soldiers did — but no artistic ability for that sort of detail work.

Then it occurred to him that while he had no skill with a needle, he was damn fine with a blade. From hobby knifes to machetes, Bond had used nearly every knife known to the modern soldier at least twice, and he was very, very good with them. And whereas ink required a fine touch and a clear pattern, a scar didn’t need to be nearly as precise. In fact, the design itself wasn’t nearly as important as the act of making it.

Thanks to a few conversations with scarification artists, and no small amount of practising on unripe bananas, Bond was thoroughly prepared. He had a set of very fine blades, a spray that contained both anaesthetic and epinephrine, and all the aftercare products he would need.

From there, the rest of the plan — aided by some very helpful literature on knot tying — was easy.

After the bath, Bond led Q into the bedroom. When Q went to the bed, Bond caught his arm and said, “Not yet. Stand here.”

He searched inside himself for any newfound distaste for a plan that had seemed perfect before his most recent capture. Much to his own surprise, he couldn’t find any dissonance. Bond wasn’t going to torture Q; he was going to mark him.

He went into the wardrobe and found the rope Q had put away last night. Bond had hidden away the kit from Medical in the safe. Now, he retrieved the kit, refused to even look at the letter from Q’s father, and closed the safe. He set the kit on the bedside table and turned to see that Q had fallen back into his training, standing with his head bowed and hands behind his back. Though it seemed like he was staring down at the floor, Bond knew that he was watching peripherally, waiting for the slightest signal that he should move.

Bond walked around behind him and lifted his arms so they were folded behind his back, hands grasping his own elbows. As he wrapped the rope around Q’s wrists and forearms, Q’s breath quickened. The last hint of tension left his shoulders, and he allowed his head to fall forward just enough for the silver glint of the collar to peek out from beneath his hair. Bond resisted the urge to kiss his nape — time enough for that later — and instead took up another piece of rope. This one went around Q’s chest and arms, just above his elbows.

Instead of bringing Q to the bed, he sat Q down on the armchair by the window. He wound more rope around Q’s body and the back of the chair. Q was relaxed, watching him silently, but Bond still worried that he wasn’t in the right headspace for what he had planned. There was probably some better way to do this, but all Bond could think of was to use more rope, knowing how beautifully Q responded to uncompromising bondage. So he knelt down and bound Q’s ankles to the legs of the armchair, tightly enough that his struggles wouldn’t cause the scalpel to slip.

When he looked back up, he saw that Q’s eyes had gone wider, pupils blown dark with arousal. Satisfied, Bond put the remains of the rope aside and walked around the room, turning on all the lights. Then he went to the ensuite for a towel and the vanity bench, which he set in front of Q, between his legs.

Bond walked back to the bedside table and brushed his hand over the kit. He opened and looked down at the scalpels, giving himself one last moment of self-reflection. He didn’t want this experience to be unpleasant in any way, and he owed it to Q to ensure he wasn’t about to trigger himself. But there was no fear, no concern, no tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop. Satisfied, he picked up the kit and took it back over to the bench.

“I’ve been planning this for a while,” Bond said quietly as he sat. He pulled the kit onto his lap and started unpacking the contents onto the floor beside him. “Since I contacted Anderson. The hardest part was coming up with a design.” Without looking up, Bond pulled out an alcohol pad and started thoroughly cleaning the skin on the upper left part of Q’s chest. “I wanted something that meant ‘for a lifetime’ but, believe it or not, there isn’t much out there.” The breathy _yes_ when he’d told Q his plans had sparked an excited anticipation in him that he hadn’t expected to feel, and he smiled at Q, knowing he wanted this, too.

Q swallowed, holding himself very still. “You,” he began, and then swallowed again. “Is this — You want... this?”

Q’s loss of precise articulation was something Bond had missed dearly. He reached up to trace Q’s mouth with his thumb, then kissed him lightly. “Yes.” Then, just to be safe, he used the alcohol on his hands before he put on his gloves.

He picked up the spray bottle, thinking that Q wouldn’t thank him for using an anaesthetic. But while Bond had learned he could hurt Q, a little bit, he had his limits, and this what he had planned went far beyond just rough sex. Plus, the spray had an antiseptic, and Bond refused to take any chances with infection.

“This will be a little cold,” he murmured as he sprayed the area thoroughly. He rubbed the liquid in with a gauze pad to make sure he didn’t miss anywhere. Then, with a deep breath, he opened a scalpel.

“I’m going to etch the outline in first, before cutting,” he told Q. He looked up at Q’s face to make sure he understood.

Q nodded, staring wide-eyed at Bond’s hands. “I won’t move,” he whispered.

Bond nodded, smiling softly, feeling a swell of emotion at Q’s trust in him, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. Though he knew Q was in that pleasant mindset where everything washed over him like warm water, Bond didn’t want to keep him waiting. With one last deep breath, Bond pressed the stencil over Q’s skin and used the tip of the scalpel to just barely raise an outline of the first curve.

The moment the metal touched Q’s skin, he closed his eyes and froze. He didn’t move until Bond lifted the scalpel away, when he pulled in a ragged, shallow breath. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. He released it when he exhaled, though he didn’t open his eyes. More confidently, Bond went back to scratching the curved lines into Q’s skin.

Much to Bond’s relief, when he pulled the stencil away to check the design, he still couldn’t find it in himself to be upset about what he was doing. With some surprise, Bond realised that not only was he getting through this; he was actually _enjoying_ marking Q, bringing him pleasure, and sharing this intimate moment that proved just how much Q trusted him.

“It’s a Celtic twin spiral,” he said quietly as he leaned over to retrieve the spray. “Kincade’s wife wore one on a necklace when I was a child. When I asked her if it meant eternal love, she laughed at me.” He sprayed the area thoroughly again, then set the bottle back down. “She said she was fire, and Kincade was water. But though it brought them into conflict occasionally, what it really meant was that they balanced each other.” He smiled up at Q. “I never understood the metaphor, until now.”

Q stared at him for long, silent seconds as though not realising he was expected to respond. Then he said, “I’m — I’m sorry, James.”

“Why?” Bond asked, raising his eyebrow.

After closing his eyes for a moment and taking another deep breath, he said, “I wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying. I’ll try harder.”

Bond chuckled as he brought the blade back up to the design. “You don’t need to pay attention,” he said, pressing the tip of the blade to Q’s skin. “This is a symbol of balance and eternity. I’ll explain where it comes from again later.” Then, without waiting for a response, Bond pressed the sharp blade in and started cutting along the pattern scratched into Q’s skin. Q froze in mid-breath, a faint whimper escaping as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. After Bond cut the first arc, Q inhaled sharply, breathing from the belly instead of the chest.

“James,” he whispered.

Bond bent to pick up a gauze pad, ripped it free from its packaging, and pressed it to the cut to capture the blood. He wanted to kiss Q, but he didn’t want to risk dropping the gauze or pressing too hard on the carefully prepared skin. So he turned his attention back to the design and, carefully but unhesitatingly, finished cutting in the rest of it.

It didn’t take long; the spirals were barely an inch around. According to his research, Q’s soft, pale skin was likely to scar easily. When the final cut was made, he dropped the scalpel on a towel and pressed a fresh gauze pad to the wound. “Done,” he declared softly.

At some point, Q had relaxed. Now, he opened his eyes and gave Bond a look that was almost dazed. “Thank you, James,” he said softly, leaning forward as best he could while still bound to the chair.

Bond gave in, closing the inches between them for a kiss that was slow and gentle, reminding him of the way Q went soft and pliant and affectionate after sex. Gratified, Bond leaned back and smiled. “Just a few more minutes to clean it up and bandage it.”

When he didn’t get a response, he focused on finishing the task. He cleaned the cut thoroughly, then taped clean gauze over it.

Once the wound was dealt with, Bond packed the kit back up. The gloves, scalpel, and used gauze all went into a plastic bag. He brought everything into the bathroom and then quickly washed his hands. He hurried back to the bedroom and freed Q’s chest and legs from the chair. Q shifted a bit, but didn’t stand until Bond pulled him to his feet.

Bond guided Q to the bed and helped him up, but wasn’t ready to untie his arms yet. He manoeuvred Q into kneeling in the middle, then guided him to lie on his chest on the duvet. He knew the press of the wound to the bed would sting, but it wouldn’t hurt too badly, nor would it damage the design. No small part of Bond was deeply satisfied with the idea that Q would feel the mark with every movement.

Though Bond had enjoyed the scarification, he hadn’t found it sexually gratifying at all. But now, as he stood by the bed, admiring the beautiful lines of Q’s body, the sight of the rope pressing into Q’s skin, and the contented, peaceful expression on Q’s face, arousal washed over him.

He’d _marked_ Q.

The adrenaline hit him in a rush the same way it always did when Bond did something dangerous. Though his logical mind was fully aware that what had just happened hadn’t actually risked either of them in any way, his animal brain was crowing at the idea that he’d just had his lover under his knife, and they’d both come away free. He did a quick circuit of the room to turn off the overhead and bedside lights, then retrieved the lubricant from his bedside drawer. He quickly joined Q on the bed and knelt behind him.

He considered preparing Q, knowing how much he enjoyed the attention. But just as much, he loved to be taken, hard and rough, and now wasn’t a time to be gentle.

Fighting the urge to ask Q if he was all right, if _this_ was all right — Q’s silence was unnerving —  Bond uncapped the bottle and poured lubricant onto his palm. He spread it over his cock, closing his eyes to try and recover some measure of self-control. Q was _his_ , and there would be no more barriers between them.

As soon as Bond pushed inside, Q’s gasp turned into a whine. “Oh, god. James. Yes. Yes, please,” he said, the words coming faster as he tried to find the leverage to push back.

Relief swept over Bond as Q found his voice again, and Bond rewarded him by leaning over and tangling his hand in Q’s hair. He thrust hard, but had to stop as the feeling nearly overwhelmed him. “Fuck,” he muttered, trying to control his breathing. He looked down at Q’s body, admiring the sight, and immediately decided that the next mark was going to be on Q’s back.

Once he finally felt like he could start moving again without losing control, he started thrusting hard and slow. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked quietly as he moved, wanting to hear Q’s voice.

“Yes. Yes, James,” Q gasped out.

“Q,” Bond breathed, closing his eyes to better feel everything. He didn’t want this to be cut short — he wanted to make the night memorable for both of them — but he didn’t think either of them was going to be able to hold off for long.

With a groan, he started to move faster as the pleasure washed over him. Soon he was close, reduced to pants interspersed with occasional declarations of ‘perfect’, ‘beautiful’, and ‘mine’ over Q’s equally mindless litany of ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and ‘James’.

Orgasm took Bond by surprise, with a force that was uncharacteristically strong — especially given the difficulties they’d so recently faced. He shuddered as the fire raced just under his skin from toes to fingertips to the tips of his ears, and he had just enough presence of mind to reach down and wrap his hand around Q’s cock.

“Now, Q,” he gasped before he bit into Q’s shoulder to quiet the shout he could feel building inside him.

Q groaned and cried out Bond’s name and pushed hard against his hand, his movements stuttered and uneven. Then, as Bond was about to release the bite, Q’s body went tight around Bond’s cock. Trembling, Q muffled his cries in the duvet for long, incredible seconds.

Bond closed his eyes and pressed his forehead between Q’s shoulderblades after he released the bite, losing himself in the perfect shaking of Q’s body. When the last of the tremors finally subsided for both of them, Bond pulled out carefully and helped Q to roll on his side. Then he collapsed next to Q and reached over for the towel he’d left on the bedside table earlier to clean them up with. When he was finished, he started slowly freeing Q from the knots. He dropped the rope on the floor next to the bed, not willing to deal with it until the morning. Then he tugged the duvet out from under them, pulled it up, and tucked Q to his chest.

“Do you need a paracetamol?” he asked, kissing Q’s neck.

Q shook his head and snuggled closer to Bond. “No, thank you, James,” he murmured, his words indistinct. “I’m fine. Should I clean up?”

“No. It can wait.” Bond sighed contentedly and pulled Q as close as possible. “Go to sleep, Q.”

Q ducked his head and kissed Bond’s arm. “Love you,” he said sleepily.

Bond smiled in the darkness. “I love you, too.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Monday, 11 February 2013**

Q turned the silver ring on his finger, trying to distract himself from the feeling of Bond’s short nails digging into his skin so he wouldn’t move. When they’d sat down on the sofa, Bond had undone the top few buttons of Q’s shirt and then ordered Q to hold still. Then he began to scrape his nails over the design he’d cut two months ago, something he did every day that he was home. It was part of the healing and scarring process, meant to encourage the fine lines to rise in small, neat scars, rather than fading into obscurity.

“We don’t have to go anywhere special,” he said a little breathlessly. “You’ve travelled all over the world. We could stay here, or we could go to Ireland. Stay local. It’s less paperwork, at least for me.”

Bond hummed thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the spirals under his fingers. “Traveling for work and traveling for pleasure are two entirely different things,” he said. “There is something to be said for throwing the windows open to foreign sunshine and wind, being as loud as we want on sheets we don’t have to clean...” He trailed off and looked up from the scar to grin at Q, though it dissolved into a curious expression. “What are you snickering about?”

“When was the last time you did laundry?” Q asked, breaking into a laugh. “Even before me. You still had the manual for your washing machine taped inside the door when I got here.”

Bond shrugged. “I said we, not I. But if you want to stay here...” He looked away from Q’s face to focus on the scar again.

Q turned to nudge against Bond’s abdomen, inching a bit closer. “No one _likes_ February in London,” he admitted. “We can go anywhere you like. Or you can tell me what you want, and I can make the arrangements. We could even ask Danielle her advice,” he added, grinning at the thought.

“Mykonos was her idea,” Bond admitted. “We never did get to... nevermind. I don’t want to bother with the trouble of a flight.” He sighed and frowned in consideration. “I’ve been politically banned from Paris for the next year or two, so that’s out. If we went anywhere near Ireland, Mallory would be insistent about our meeting his contacts there. And there’s nothing left for me in Scotland.” He sighed. “I’ll think of something. Maybe Prague.”

“We could lie and tell Mallory we’re going to Brighton, and then go to Kaleigh Castle,” Q offered. “It’s supposed to be gorgeous. All the outdoor activities you could want. Hiking, horseback riding, that sort of thing.”

“I bet you’re gorgeous on a horse,” Bond said with a faint smile and a faraway look. “Do we own a camera?”

Q opened his eyes and gave Bond a baffled look. “I run Technical Services Section, James. I can get my hands on any sort of camera you’d like and call it field testing.”

“All right, then. Kaleigh it is. Whatever kind of camera you get, make it’s something that won’t break when I drop it. Perhaps something rated for paratroopers. That last flimsy thing I had for the Iran mission almost saw me in chains again, thanks to the lovely sound it made when it shattered.”

With a sigh, Q wondered if it would be more expedient to build more rugged field gear — despite the obvious cost in size and concealability — or to simply teach Bond to be gentler with technology. To make matters worse, Alec was just as bad, and the other senior agents had learned their habits from Q’s two problem Double O’s. And naturally that meant the junior agents striving for the Double O programme had to emulate everything their heroes did...

 _Education, definitely_ , Q thought. Or maybe a proximity detector linked to a wristwatch. Drop the camera, get an electrical shock. He snickered at the thought, inappropriate as it was. He wouldn’t actually use a shock collar on a dog, but field agents were supposed to be tough. Besides, what they did to some of his issued kit bordered on criminal misuse.

There was a thought. He could do a paper on the ethics of abusing technology.

Bond pressed a hard thumbnail just at the edge of the scar, causing Q to gasp, closing his eyes tightly as a spike of desire shot through him, following the edges of the pain. “Whatever revenge you’re planning I must strenuously object. I didn’t drop the damn thing on purpose — it was thirty-three degrees, and _someone_ neglected to give it a rubber grip, so the metal slipped through my damp hands. Hmmm... I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” he added wickedly as he pressed again a few centimetres over.

Q dragged in a breath and opened his eyes. “I’d... I’d say you _have_ me,” he corrected, arching his back to press against Bond’s hand.

“The next one needs to go on your back,” Bond said thoughtfully, even as he continued to draw sharp edges of pain from the still-healing scar tissue.

It took a moment for Bond’s words to sink in. _The next one_. Q closed his eyes, losing himself in the thought. There were so many possibilities — where and what and how large. He tried to imagine it, but then he realised it wasn’t necessary. It was something Bond _wanted_ to do, and that was all that mattered.

“Yes, please,” he said tightly, clenching his hands together. He wanted to offer to find the box of scalpels now, but it wasn’t his place to rush the decision. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be clever about it — something Bond enjoyed. “I could get a knife, if you wanted to experiment,” he offered hopefully.

“A knife,” Bond said with a hitch in his breath. He reached his free hand up to Q’s chin, turning Q’s head to study his expression. Q knew he was searching for any sign of hesitance or fear, and could see when he found nothing but trust. “It would be hard to get any sort of nimble design work out of a knife,” he said softly, stroking Q’s jaw.

Suspecting Bond wanted to be persuaded, Q said, “Not for you. How better for you to know where you want to mark me, so you can see it and touch it with me in any position you like?” He turned to kiss Bond’s fingertips. “I think you need to experiment. Quite a bit, in fact.”

“Fucking hell,” Bond whispered, letting go of Q’s chin to trace his collarbone. “No. It’s too dangerous,” he said more loudly, though the hand never stopped moving suggestively over Q’s skin, nails digging in in some places. “Though the thought of my black titanium on your skin, perhaps over your hip...”

 _Yes, yes, yes_ , Q thought, swallowing. “I trust you, James. I can get it for you. Clean it, so it’s sterile, though I know you won’t slip.”

 _Trust_ — the magic word for Bond. His hand slipped to Q’s neck, thumb rubbing circles into his nape. “All right. Just lines, maybe. But the med kit, too, and the spray. And you’ll just need to kneel here, in front of me. I’m not in the mood for ropes tonight.”

Q was tempted to say Bond didn’t need the anaesthetic, but... maybe he did, for his own peace of mind. So he sat up and turned so he could kiss Bond, and then got off the sofa. He considered bringing Bond a drink first, but decided against it, not for his sake but for Bond’s. He’d want no question in his own mind that his hand would be steady.

So he went to the bedroom instead, and found the titanium knife in Bond’s bedside drawer. He knew it was razor sharp without even looking at the blade. The polycarbonate sheath kept the edge from dulling and left no contaminants, but he still put the blade under hot water in the bathroom while he took out the first aid kit. The anaesthetic spray was in the bag with the scalpels left over from the first scarification.

He sterilized the knife with rubbing alcohol, capped the bottle, and set it on top of the kit, next to the spray. He folded two towels over his arm and carried everything back out to the living room. The scar on his chest, two months old, still ached from Bond’s scratching, and Q wondered what it would be like to have that feeling mirrored, back and front.

He set everything down on the coffee table, moved the coffee table aside, and lowered himself to his knees at Bond’s feet. Inspiration struck again, and as he offered Bond the knife with both hands, carefully not touching the sterile edge, he said, “Perhaps I should remind you that this isn’t one of the shirts you had made for me, James.”

“Oh, fucking hell,” Bond said again, taking the knife carefully from Q’s hands. “Hands on your ankles,” he demanded, leaning forward to watch as Q obeyed. He touched the knife tip to the hollow of Q’s throat, so lightly Q barely felt it, then pulled it away and down, slicing off the buttons, following the arch of his body without letting the knife touch his skin. “Turn around.”

Already, Q’s breathing was unsteady, and he felt himself sinking into his skin. He turned in place as gracefully as he could, rested his hands on his knees, and bowed his head, baring the back of his neck. He could feel everything, from the currents of hot air blowing from the vent to the thick throw rug under his knees and feet. He was conscious of how his socks and belt pinched lightly at his skin and the soft wool of his trousers and the weight of his collar, now free from the confines of the shirt.

“Hold still,” Bond said quietly, then ran the knife down the back of Q’s shirt, cutting it neatly in half. The two pieces slid off each shoulder, and Q’s back and chest were suddenly completely bare. “Closer,” Bond demanded roughly.

Q inched back until his toes were under the sofa. His fingers pressed into his kneecaps. He tried not to shift impatiently. He wanted to be touched — Bond’s hands, his knife, his teeth, anything. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, as if he could determine Bond’s position just from the heat of his body.

Bond leaned forward, an arm wrapping around Q’s chest and arms, pinning him tightly. His mouth was inches from Q’s ear, breath hot and quick as he licked at the curve. Then he backed away, and Q felt the cold touch of an alcohol wipe at his nape. Slowly, Bond moved it down Q’s back, over his spine. “God, I love you,” Bond growled as he systematically cleaned the area, soon switching the alcohol wipe for the spray.

Biting down on a whimper, Q managed a nod. “James.” He dug his nails into his trousers, bowing his head even more. Even if the knife didn’t cut him, the lines would sting for days. He never went to work without a tie, and he kept his shirts buttoned all the way to hide his collar. The fabric would rub over the lines through the day, and he’d be constantly reminded of _this_.

Q heard the sound of the spray bottle splash as Bond tossed it aside. Then Bond reached out to push Q’s head forward. His hand fisted in Q’s hair, holding so tightly that Q couldn’t have moved his head if he tried. Then there was the cold touch of the titanium on his skin.

“No design, no practise etch,” Bond said quietly, holding the knife steady.

The first cut, just above his shoulderblades, was a dull pressure, barely stinging through the anaesthetic until the point dug in deeper. The flare of pain made him close his eyes and bite his lip to help keep silent. It hurt — of course, it did — but he wanted more, because it felt every bit as good as a kiss or gentle touch. Better. Much better.

The cut was small — a short horizontal line, cut from left to right. The next cut was above the first, parallel to it, and Q gasped aloud. It felt as if the two cuts completed an electrical circuit, each one amplifying the sting of the other. The third slow, careful cut above the other two made him moan.

Bond paused, presumably to admire his handiwork so far. “This is the perfect place for these. I’ll be able to rub my hand over them, feel them, whenever I want, wherever I want.” He chuckled, the sound dark and satisfied, as Q felt a trickle of blood running down his spine. “But no one else will be able to see them. You can’t even see them. They’ll be just for me.”

The idea — the thought that Bond had _considered_ such detail — was intoxicating. Q had never been so wanted before. Not like this. “Yes. Yes, please, James,” he said, unable to hold the words back.

Bond’s responding hum was smug, but he didn’t hold back. He tightened his grip on Q’s hair again and slowly dragged the blade across skin again, cutting deeply and evenly and wonderfully slowly. “I can keep doing this, but how high?” he mused

“My hair, James,” Q said, the words coming out strained. “My hair would hide them.”

“I don’t know how far I’ll get before I need to stop so I can fuck you,” Bond growled as he cut another line. “Or perhaps I should leave that decision in your hands. Or I could fuck you _while_ I keep drawing lines.”

Q’s first thought was to suggest that Bond cut off his trousers and start already, before a hint of worry crept into his mind. Bond was powerful and aggressive; even slow and gentle, for him, was always rough and hard, and Q didn’t have the physical strength to hold still under him. One errant cut at the wrong moment and Bond would forever be hesitant to touch anything sharp to his skin.

“May I suggest something else, James?” he asked.

“You’re coherent,” Bond said with surprise. “I must be doing something wrong,” he said, voice teasing, though he pulled the knife away.

Slowly, Q lifted his head, fighting against the pain that threatened to drag him back under again. He turned around, much less gracefully this time, and lifted his hands to Bond’s legs, following the inseam of his trousers. “I was only thinking of your pleasure,” he said, dragging his hand up over Bond’s cock, fingers teasing at his flies. “How much you enjoy my mouth. Don’t you?”

Bond’s breath stuttered, and he shuddered under Q’s touch. “I don’t think that’s safe,” he said, though he pushed his hips up into Q’s hands.

“I’ll go slowly,” Q said, sliding both hands out to Bond’s hips. He knelt up, shivering as he felt another drop of blood slip free. He lowered his head and looked up at Bond, saying, “I trust you, James.” Then he ducked and tugged at Bond’s belt with his teeth, pulling the tongue free of the buckle. He was out of practice and distracted, but he had incentive to be perfect for Bond, which made it easy for him to tighten the belt just enough to slip the leather free of the metal prong. Another tug, still using only his teeth, let him open the belt completely, and he looked up once more. “May I continue?”

“Christ, Q,” Bond hissed out, hands still as he watched Q intently. “It’s been far too long.”

“I’m sorry for not thinking of it sooner,” Q said, and got to work on the waistband clasp.

He’d just pulled it free and caught the zipper tab when he heard the alarm system beep. Keycard entry. He looked up at Bond, tensing his legs in preparation, in case he needed to move out of the way.

“Not good timing, Alec!” Bond yelled at the door, voice thick with tension. He didn’t let go of Q’s hair, however — he merely pushed Q’s head down in encouragement. Relieved, Q tugged the zipper down, struggling against the folds of fabric. This would be much easier with Bond standing, but Q managed.

He was just starting to tug the fabric out of the way when Alec walked into the living room. “Timing looks about right to me,” he said, and then something hit the sofa. “There’s your tablet, Q, and no, I wasn’t the one who shot it.”

Bond groaned and shifted, and a crack of glass made Q suspect the tablet had hit the floor. “He’s busy.”

Q got as far as he could with his teeth. He looked questioningly up at Bond as he moved his hands up to grasp the waistband of his trousers. He could manage well enough without undressing Bond, but this would be more comfortable and satisfying if he could get Bond closer to naked.

“Right —” Alec cut off abruptly, and Q heard his footsteps, so light for a man his size, come closer. “He’s _bleeding_.” Then Alec’s hand was in his hair, pushing his head down to bare the back of his neck.

“Yes, he is, and there are plans for more, if you’ll be so kind as to stop interrupting,” Bond said with annoyance. Then he added, much more softly, “Wait until you see the one on the front.”

A sharp tug pulled Q away. He fell back to sit on his heels as Alec crouched down and then froze. After a soft Russian curse, Alec said, “You did this. Did you do this?” The worry had drained from his voice, leaving something like awe to take its place.

“Isn’t it amazing? The first one, on the night we signed the new contract. And Q...” Bond leaned forward to pull Q close again, nuzzling at his hair. “It’s for both of us.”

Q heard the couch cushions shift as Alec sat down next to Bond. “He’s all right? It’s not... It’s healed?”

Bond’s hands guided Q to arch backward. “Here,” he said, and a moment later, Alec’s and Bond's fingers were tangled and pressing over the twin spirals.

Another Russian curse, this one bitten off as they explored the scar together. “You did this. _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. “How did you even think to do this?”

“Permanent marks are allowed in the contract now. A tattoo would have been less personal. This...” He ran his hand avariciously down Q’s body. “This is something _I_ can do. Something I’m going to keep doing.”

Q’s heart skipped. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine it, but it was too much to think of all at once. Bond wanted _more_ of this. More of him.

“He likes the idea,” Alec said quietly.

“Watch,” Bond said just as quietly. Then his hand was in Q’s hair again, just as relentless and brutal, holding Q’s head perfectly still, bowed against his leg. The knife point gently scraped the hair away, and Q shivered as the cold air hit his cuts. Then Bond’s knife was on him again, pressing insistently, drawing a short, bloody line bare millimeters above the last.

Q’s hands, resting on his legs once more, clenched, nails scraping against his knees. He whimpered as the pain sparked through his whole body, making him ache for more. The fact that Bond didn’t hesitate — didn’t _ask_ — was even better than the knowledge that Bond was showing him off to Alec. But god, if one of them didn’t fuck him soon, he might well end up dead.

Alec’s next question came in Russian, asked in a wondering, even fascinated tone.

“He trusts me,” Bond said reverently, and Q tried not to wonder what Alec had asked — it wasn’t his concern, but he was curious all the same. “He was going to go down on me while I finished this. Your timing is truly terrible.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Alec said, settling comfortably on the sofa.

Bond tugged on Q’s hair again, guiding him back down to the exposed fabric of his pants. Immediately, Q took the waistband in his teeth and used his hands to help ease the fabric down as much as he could. “God, yes,” Bond said. “If you want to get Q off, I’m sure he’d be appreciative,” he added, voice tight again.

Alec might have answered, though Q didn’t hear it. He focused entirely on warm skin and soft hair, licking and nuzzling as he eased Bond’s clothes down as far as he could. Then he swiped his tongue across the head, soft and quick, and felt a curl of satisfaction at the way Bond’s breath caught. Q was getting much better at this, without a condom. Bond was deliciously easy to read, always so appreciative of Q’s best efforts. He licked again, this time a broader stroke, and then ducked down to lick up the length. When Bond’s hips twitched, Q did it again, first to one side, then the other, wetting down the soft skin so he could take Bond’s cock smoothly into his mouth.

Then a hand — and guiltily, he realized he had no idea _whose_ hand it was — pushed him all the way down. He gasped in a half-breath and swallowed as the hand held him there, head bowed just slightly. Fingers caught at his hair, exposing the back of his neck. Then they dropped down, scraping at the fresh cuts, making Q let out a muffled whimper at the sparks of pain that crawled down his spine and over his skin.

“Clever bastard, aren’t you?” Alec asked as he touched the cuts again, making Q squirm and shift against the trousers he’d never convinced Bond to remove for him. “Starting here wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“No,” Bond breathed out. “I’ll be able to feel the scars any time I like, and we’ll remember.” Then, he quietly added, “Alec, he’s got to be excruciatingly hard right now.”

The hand moved from his head, and he lifted off enough to breathe. As he went to swallow again, though, Alec shifted closer, working his arm around Q’s body, pushing Bond’s leg aside. When his hand found Q’s cock, still trapped behind the taut folds of wool cloth, Q couldn’t help but gasp and push against the touch.

Alec’s laugh was rough and dark. “You could say that,” he said, and Q whimpered as the touch disappeared.

“Trousers and pants off, Q,” Bond ordered. “You’d like Alec to join us, wouldn’t you?”

 _Yes,_ Q thought as everything else fell away. The words lit a fire in his mind, one that threatened to destroy his self-control. But he belonged to Bond, not to both of them, and no matter how much he wanted Alec — no matter how he felt about Alec, after their months together — Bond had to come first.

He lifted his head only enough to say, “If you’d like, James,” before he licked again. He unclasped the waistband and unzipped, taking Bond’s cock into his mouth again to distract him from the graceless, desperate way he was undressing.

“Go away or be useful, Alec,” Bond said. He thrust up into Q’s mouth and groaned. Then he held Q perfectly still and cut another line into Q’s skin.

Q heard Alec curse and move. Then Alec’s hands closed over Q’s hips to pull him up to his knees. He shoved Q’s hands away so he could quickly and efficiently strip off the rest of Q’s clothes. Lightly, teasingly, he moved his hand over Q’s cock.

Alec’s touch made Q groan around Bond’s cock. He reminded himself to concentrate on Bond’s pleasure — on finding a slow, steady, predictable rhythm, letting his tongue do most of the work, so he could hold still for the knife. When Bond cut him again, Q’s breath stuttered at the raw pleasure and his whole body went still. It took a thrust of Bond’s hips to remind him of what he’d been doing for Bond.

“Do it again,” Alec said.

Bond immediately stopped moving, held Q still, and cut another line into Q’s neck. It was as even and unhurried as any of the other cuts, despite the fact that he tensed with a repressed urge to thrust where he was buried in Q’s mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” Alec said softly. “James. You need to feel this.”

Bond groaned, but withdrew from Q’s mouth. He gave Q a push away from the sofa and settled on his knees in front of him. As soon as Alec let go of Q’s cock, Bond replaced Alec’s hand with his own. Then, staring into Q’s eyes, he handed the knife over to Alec. “Go ahead,” he said softly.

Q stared at Bond, fighting not to thrust against his hand. His skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Impossibly, with an assassin in front of him and another behind him with a knife, he felt safe, and he knew that Bond was enjoying his arousal — that Alec was, too.

Then the knife touched, and he gasped and felt Bond’s fingers clench as his hips and cock twitched involuntarily. He needed more, from one or the other of them, and he didn’t care which. Without the distraction of seeing to Bond’s pleasure, his self-control broke, and he pleaded, “Don’t stop. God, please, don’t stop. Please.”

Bond started slowly working Q’s cock, pulling in short, hard tugs that weren’t fast enough to bring him over the edge, but were a good start. “Alec,” he said with low intent, holding Q’s hair. “Him first this time.”

The edge of the knife touched his spine, below the first cuts. Then Alec scraped the edge up, angled not to slice but to drag, to spark pain as it stuttered over each of the cuts. Q bit down on a sound that would have been too close to a scream, and he dug his nails into his own legs to keep from grabbing at Alec’s hand — to stop him, to dig the knife in, or maybe just to feel the shift of muscles that brought such impossible, terrible pleasure.

When Alec reached the top of the cuts, he dragged the knife across, letting the edge slice before the point dug in like an accent over a letter, taking the pain of the cut and spreading it through Q’s body, transmuting it into something more. Q looked into Bond’s eyes, so blue and bright only at the edges, pupils gone wide and black and intense, and as the point of the knife covered one last millimetre, Bond’s hand twisted, and Alec pressed close behind Q, and it was all too much.

This time, he did shout as he came, arching up into Bond’s hand as his head fell back. Alec threw the knife aside and flattened his hand over the line of cuts, and the sting of his salty skin sent aftershocks through Q’s body, ripping the breath from him.

Then, as it all ebbed, Bond pulled him close. Realising it was over, Q leaned against his chest, lost in the deep, wonderful feeling of surrender that consumed him.

“Bloody perfect,” Bond said softly, rubbing his hands over Q’s back. Alec did the same, shifting to sit closer. His hands petted Q’s hair, though his thumb kept dropping down to touch the cuts.

Then Alec moved away again, and Q distantly heard him rustling around in the first aid kit. Q knew he should do something — clean up the mess, if nothing else — but he felt sated and relaxed and so very comfortable in Bond’s arms.

“Let’s clean this up a bit,” Alec said, before he touched Q’s back again. The swipe of cotton wool over his back didn’t sting. Peroxide, then, and not alcohol. Q let his head fall forward against Bond’s chest, shivering when a drip of peroxide slithered down his back.

Bond shifted and, without dislodging Q, pulled one arm away to retrieve half of Q’s ruined shirt. He reached between them and wiped Q’s stomach and chest clean, then tossed the shirt aside. He pulled them close again and stroked a soothing hand through Q’s hair as Alec continued to clean the cuts. “Eventually, you’ll have a long line of those down to your tailbone. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Though it would mean you’d probably have to wear a shirt when you’re swimming or at the beach. You’re probably not shy, but I think these can be just for us.”

“Whatever you’d like, James,” Q said agreeably, thinking it would be nice to coax Bond to a Marketplace event where the only comments on his scars would be ones of admiration. Or perhaps he should wait a few years, until he had even more marks, as Bond had said he wanted to do. The thought teased through Q’s body with little sparks of renewed interest, making his heart beat faster.

“You want me to get him to bed?” Alec offered.

“That’s probably a good idea. I’ll be in in a minute,” Bond said. He kissed Q’s hair, and with Alec’s assistance, helped get Q to his feet. “I’ll clean up and lock up. Oh, and we still have to discuss the project I mentioned.”

 _Project?_ Q wondered, but he didn’t ask. Feeling a bit dizzy, he said, “I can clean up here, James.”

“No. Go with Alec,” Bond said firmly, giving Alec a look. Before Q had a chance to argue, Bond bent to gather the discarded, ruined shirt and headed for the kitchen.

With a little laugh, Alec wrapped his arm around Q’s body, not quite lifting him off his feet. Realising Alec was fully prepared to carry him, Q concentrated on walking, despite the wonderfully drowsy feeling that made him want to curl up and sleep for a week. He was more than halfway there by the time Alec got him into the bed and under the covers.

Before Alec could leave, Q reached up to touch his arm. When Alec met his eyes, Q tried to sit up, but Alec gently pushed him back down. “Rest.”

“Please, sir,” Q said, his voice rough and drowsy and sated.

Alec’s expression softened. He tipped his head curiously. “What is it?”

Q rolled onto his side, his neck and spine on fire in the most delicious way. He closed his eyes and kissed Alec’s hand, trying to show Alec everything that he couldn’t put into words. Then he rubbed his cheek against Alec’s knuckles and said, “Thank you, sir.”

Alec’s other hand stroked gently over Q’s hair. “Rest, love,” he said softly.

He understood. Smiling to himself, Q laid back down and closed his eyes.

He never saw Alec leave.

 

~~~

 

“I’ve never seen him go that deep before,” Alec said as he returned to the living room.

Bond gave Alec a self-satisfied smirk. “I can’t beat him, but I can satisfy his masochism in a very aesthetically pleasing way. _You_ enjoyed it.”

“Well, yes, but I’m every bit as cracked as you are,” Alec said bluntly. He picked up the anaesthetic spray and skimmed the label. “I had a lovely mission, thanks.” He put the spray down and went to the kitchen, calling back, “So what’s this project of yours? If it’s more artwork, I can’t say I would mind helping.”

Bond watched Alec, surprised at the tentative edge to his offer. The dynamic the three of them had shared since Bond’s return had shifted dramatically from the post-mission fuck of just a year earlier. At first, Bond had needed Alec’s presence to help keep Bond from slipping into a post-trauma destructive cycle that could have been ruinous for him and Q. But it was more than that now. Not only was Alec deeply attached to Q; he was the perfect counter to Bond. Beyond friendship, beyond affection, with Q’s help they all kept each other sane.

 _Well, as close to sane as two Double O’s and their masochistic slave could get_ , Bond thought with an internal smirk. He wondered if Psych would actually approve of the relationship, assuming they could get past Q’s slavery.

“Of course,” he finally said, fetching his tablet from where he’d left it on the kitchen table. “But there’s something else.” Bond unlocked the tablet and pulled up the files Danielle had sent him on Q’s father. He passed it over to Alec, then walked past him to pour them drinks.

Alec skimmed, frowning in puzzlement as he paged through the file. He took the cold vodka with a nod and murmured a toast, drinking it down in one swallow. “Are we MI5 now, or is he a foreign sleeper agent?”

“He’s Q’s father.” Bond took the tablet from Alec, switched it to the photo program, and pulled up the photo scan he’d taken of the letter. Then he handed it back.

“Q’s... Has he ever mentioned family?” Alec asked.

“He has a...” Bond started, only to stop when Alec’s expression went cold and shuttered.

Silently, Alec read all the way to the end. Then he gently set down the tablet and reached for the vodka to refill his glass. Though he seemed outwardly calm, Bond could feel the fury crackling off his skin. “I take it he doesn’t know just how badly he’s going to die?”

Bond smiled at Alec’s enthusiasm, grim though it was. “It’s complicated because the bastard is extremely well-connected. With M, I would barely have hesitated. With Mallory...” Bond shrugged. “All the dirt Danielle could find on him is in there. Also, Q’s mother is divorced from him, and she’s just as bad as he is. She’s ‘found religion’ now, apparently. And Q has a twin, Z, but he’s brilliant. Nothing like their parents, but also very different from Q.”

“And the sister?” Alec looked up, hands tightening on the tablet. “Tell me she’s not...”

 _Dead,_ Bond finished the sentence automatically in his head. “Not exactly. ‘She’ is now Z.”

Alec stared at him, though his eyes were distant. “Right,” he said after a few seconds. “I take it the parents still don’t approve of either of them,” he said. It came out a growl.

Bond gestured at the letter. “Apparently not. We need to do something about this.”

“If we can’t deal with a civilian shit like this and not get caught, we may as well quit our jobs and become greengrocers,” Alec scoffed. “It complicates things, you digging for intel, but that just makes it more sporting, I suppose. We could lure him overseas. Somewhere exotic. With thorns or fire ants.”

“It was all Danielle, and she was fully informed. I’m certain she’d be happy to help hide the body.” Bond sighed and leaned back against the counter. “You should have seen him. In a _universe hates us_ moment, the letter was delivered right when we got back from signing the contract. Q couldn’t even look at it. I can’t talk to him about it. The only thing that brought him back was my giving him that first scar.” He looked up at Alec. “Whatever we do, it has to look like something that could easily have happened in his day-to-day life. Q won’t ask, but if we do it right, he will probably just convince himself it was an accident and we won’t ever have to talk about it. He won’t have to think about it, ever again.”

Alec nodded. “I can warn him off, if you’d rather not be directly involved. You shouldn’t be directly involved. You’re the first suspect. Hell, I can probably get someone in the art department to come up with some official looking notice about bothering an MI6 exec. Threaten his political career.”

“He strikes me as the type to take that back to Mallory for verification. He doesn’t seem to have any qualms about making friends through button-pushing and taking advantage of them whenever possible. I was thinking it’s time to give him a taste of his own medicine. Delivered in the dark of his own home, at gunpoint.” The concept held certain dramatic flair, but as long as they were prepared, the politician wouldn’t dare chase down Mallory to complain.

Alec’s grin was sharp. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He relaxed fractionally and sipped his vodka. “Do we need to do anything about the mother?”

“Not yet. Q has told security to return all communications and packages from her. I’ve given them her photograph as well. If she’s persistent, we can change our minds later.” Bond shook his head. “For as much as we used to romanticise having parents as adults, it’s hard to imagine someone being that cruel — especially to our Q.”

“I’d rather not, unless you want me going to deal with this tonight in a very spectacular, bloody fashion,” Alec said grimly. He looked down at the tablet, which had gone dark. He woke it with a tap and went back to studying the file. “Q won’t bring this up again. We never mention it. We let him forget. Right?”

Bond picked up his glass and took a drink. “Right.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Saturday, 23 March 2013**

According to the file, Harold Talbot would turn sixty in just over a week, assuming he lived that long. He snored like a tank with a bad transmission, a sound that had become distressingly familiar to Alec over the last thirty-odd minutes.

The townhouse’s security had been laughably easy to crack even without any of Q Branch’s gadgets. In fact, Alec wasn’t carrying a single piece of MI6 gear. He’d gone for a definitely downmarket look, from his worn-out workboots, a half-size too big, to the black market 9mm with no serial numbers.

The maid was off on weekends, which limited the operation to Saturday or Sunday. Unfortunately, in the last few weeks, Alec had been out of the country twice, and his target had spent the rest of his weekends with company. Thankfully he was finally alone. Otherwise, Alec might have decided to take unwise steps.

Q hadn’t said a word about his parents. Alec had no idea if Bond had ordered him to silence — or if Q had taken Bond’s “I’ll take care of it” as an order to let the matter drop, which was more likely — but the sword still hung over them, a threat that Alec and Bond both needed to have addressed and done with.

Fortunately, Q was too well-mannered to ask where Alec went on those nights he was in London but didn’t get home or left at an unreasonable hour. Alec had intentionally varied his routine, occasionally going to a pub or nightclub, though he never bothered picking up dates. He probably didn’t need to go out at all, but as comfortable as he was with Bond and Q, he was still aware that they were a couple, and he... wasn’t.

He let out a frustrated breath and shifted in the uncomfortable armchair he’d chosen for his wait. Bond knew where he was, Q didn’t, and that was all that mattered. He was having enough trouble keeping his hand off his gun; he didn’t need to provoke trouble by thinking about their ‘relationship’, putting himself into an even more dangerous mood. As it was, Talbot was lucky Alec was waiting patiently for him to wake up, rather than waking him by breaking something only moderately important, like a foot.

Lots of fragile, fine bones in a foot. And toes that he really didn’t need. As an MP, he sat on his arse all day and did nothing productive, anyway.

Finally, the rhythm of Talbot’s snorting and snuffling changed. Alec uncrossed his legs and let his ripped jacket hang open, showing the butt of the gun at his waist.

Still, Talbot’s awakening felt endless. He shifted, expensive mattress creaking slightly under his weight, and huffed and finally, _finally_ rolled over to reach for the bedside table. The clock blinked 7:09 a.m.

“Damn,” Talbot muttered, lifting the clock and peering at it as if he were expecting it to change its mind. “Why must I always wake up before the good part, and long before the alarm.” His voice was low and gruff and beyond irritated, despite the fact that he probably wasn’t even actually fully conscious yet. He slammed the clock down as if it had personally offended him, then rolled to face the ceiling.

Another time, with another victim, Alec would’ve had a ready comment. He prided himself on his emotional detachment while on the job. Very few things could push him close to losing his self-control, but unfortunately this man had pushed the only two buttons that mattered to Alec: He’d upset Bond and Q.

“Be glad you’re waking up at all,” he said, allowing his old accent to slip back into his voice.

Talbot sucked in a startled breath so fast that for a long moment he couldn’t do anything but cough, face turning red and splotchy with fear and lack of air. He scrambled on the bed away from Alec, the lean lines of the figure Q had inherited made jerky and ungraceful with his poor attempt at escape. He hit the wall behind him, staring wide-eyed at Alec for long moments before he regained his breath.

“How the _hell_ did you get in here?” Talbot finally managed to shout, and if it had been anyone else, Alec might have been impressed with how quickly the man shaped his fear into more useful rage.

“No need to scream yet,” Alec said calmly. He moved one hand from the arm of the chair to smooth down his ratty old T-shirt, drawing Talbot’s eye to the butt of the gun. “It’s not good for you. Sounds like you have a bit of breathing trouble. Smoker in your youth, were you?”

“Why, do you have a cigarette handy?” Talbot asked viciously. He looked down at the gun, then back up at Alec, doing his best to convey just how unimpressed he was. It might have worked if not for the shakiness of his hands and the way he was breathing, shallow and light. “What do you want?”

Alec smiled nastily. “To see you live a long and healthy life in service to your constituents. You deserve many more years in politics. Don’t you agree?”

“Deserve,” Talbot said with a huff. He smoothed down the front lines of his ridiculously expensive pyjamas and slid off the bed at the end, keeping his gaze fixed on Alec the entire time. “I’ve _earned_ it.” He waved a shaky hand at the dressing table, where amber liquors were lined up in decorative crystal decanters. “Drink?”

“It’s not even brunch. Or don’t you even pretend to decency anymore?” Alec bared his teeth in another vicious smile. “People might think you’re as bad as your children.”

 _That_ seemed to give Talbot pause. His hand stopped, mid-air, above a shorter container for a long moment before he shook his head. “This is how you introduce yourself to people, and you want _me_ to feel bad about my morning routine?” Talbot shook his head and popped the corked top free of the decanter. “Which one hired you? I wouldn’t have thought either of them had the steel core required for such a ridiculous move.” He filled a small tumbler with a strong-smelling brandy.

Alec laughed with false humour. “No one hired me, Mr Talbot. I came to see if we could reach a private understanding about your future career.”

“Oh, don’t bother trying to convince me there is no paper trail. I know better than to think either one would be so obvious in their tactics.” Talbot replaced the cork and the decanter, and with false bravery leaned against the dresser. “Out with it, then,” he said, waving the tumbler at Alec. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve a busy day and very little time to listen to idle threats.”

The man was too calm. Too confident. Was there something Danielle’s research hadn’t uncovered? Some connection to organised crime, perhaps?

Any other time, Alec would have deviated from the mission to either bring him in for interrogation or to find a way to end the encounter, buying time for further research. But at the moment, he didn’t give a damn if the man was selling nukes to Russia. He had more important business.

He got up out of the chair with lazy, controlled grace and started walking towards Talbot. The door was behind Alec and off to the left, so no escape for Talbot there. The ensuite door was behind Talbot, but Alec had already verified that he could get through it with one good kick. Talbot wasn’t about to dive out the window — not three storeys up — so he was effectively trapped. At first, Talbot managed to maintain his outwardly cool exterior, watching Alec with obvious derision. But the closer Alec got, the less Talbot was able to hold onto the facade. He took a step back, then stumbled, then glanced at the door behind Alec before holding up his free hand.

“Now you just stop there, friend,” he demanded. “I’m not someone you can intimidate. I haven’t done a damn thing —”

Alec had no sense of fair play at all, or he might have felt guilty at how easy it all was. He snatched the glass out of Talbot’s hand, swept a foot against both of Talbot’s legs, and followed him down to the carpet. A hard strike against the bed shattered the glass, leaving Alec with a lovely choice of shards, all dripping with brandy.

Before Talbot could do more than squeak in surprise, the biggest shard was at his eye, close enough to touch his lashes, holding him paralysed. Alec didn’t even have to touch him or pin him down with any more than that threat.

“They can’t afford me, Mr Talbot,” he said conversationally. “They didn’t send me.”

“What the hell do you want, then?” Talbot demanded again, voice angry even as he failed to meet Alec’s gaze in favour of tracking the glass shard.

“Your house in Hampshire, Mr Talbot,” Alec said, naming the most expensive of his purchases. “Your two-week ‘working holiday’ for a three-day conference in Hawaii. Your maid. Half a million quid invested in emerging market funds. All very extravagant for your listed income, Mr Talbot. Don’t you think?”

Talbot covered his surprise with a scoff, though he didn’t actually move under Alec. “Necessary expenses for the sort of work I do,” he said. “What of it?”

“You might want to rethink that,” Alec advised. He twitched the shard of glass, making Talbot’s eye blink involuntarily at the touch on his lashes. Thank god he didn’t have the same deep hazel eyes as Q. “Times are rough, Mr Talbot. People would just love to get their hands on your financial reports. And if your fellow MPs have someone to throw to the wolves, maybe it’ll distract public opinion from turning on them, too.”

Talbot’s expression turned indignant, and he opened his mouth as if to argue, then snapped it shut again. He closed his eyes for a moment, and a fine tremor ran through his body as his eyelashes scraped over the glass. “You’re not the first person to demand money from me in the most violent way possible. But if my son and daughter are helping you...” His gaze turned vicious again. “Just tell —”

Alec didn’t think; he twisted his hand, scraping the shard of glass up over the thin skin of Talbot’s forehead, drawing an inch-long line of blood.

Talbot froze, utterly still except for the shudder that ripped through his body. “Well?” he demanded again, though his voice had lost most of its hardness.

“Your sons,” Alec corrected, losing the steady, casual tone of his own voice. He had no idea who this brother was, but he knew enough. “Say it. Sons.”

Talbot held perfectly still, staring at Alec incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Sons,” he repeated, punctuating the word with a sharp poke of the glass shard, digging into Talbot’s forehead until he felt the scrape of bone.

Talbot couldn’t hold back the unwilling, pained cry as the glass was pressed into tender flesh. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?” he sputtered, voice suddenly manic with intent. “Do you have any idea... What do you care, anyway?”

Alec didn’t kill lightly. For all the fierce reputation of the Double O’s, none of them did. He’d never been so tempted to cross that line now, and to hell with M’s orders or laws or even his bloody conscience, which was absolutely, blissfully silent.

“You don’t seem to understand. Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted your morning drink.” The next cut was a quick, shallow, painful slash across Talbot’s cheek. This time, Alec didn’t bother with precision. He just wanted to hear that smug voice lost under screams.

Talbot didn’t disappoint, his voice roughened by sleep and alcohol and the lingering effects of whatever bad habit had left its mark on him. “All right!” he managed to cry out, trembling under Alec’s hand. “Whatever you want! What do you want?”

“‘Sons’,” Alec prompted. “Say it. You have two sons, Mr Talbot. Not a son and a daughter.”

Talbot pursed his lips staring at Alec as if he were thinking about arguing. Then a fat drop of blood rolled down the side of his face, and Talbot shuddered. “Sons,” he said quietly, though his eyes burned with sudden, intense hatred that almost drowned out the fear.

Alec’s vision went dark in a way that hadn’t happened since he’d heard that bitch say, “Agent down.” He told himself that this had gone too far — that he’d gone too far off mission and needed to abort — but only two people in the world could stop him, and they were both at home, sleeping peacefully, right where they should be.

He moved, dropping his improvised weapon onto the floor, in the middle of puddled brandy and glass shards. One hand took hold of Talbot’s thinning brown hair, and with a hard pull that left him holding clumps, he slammed the side of Talbot’s face into the glass.

Talbot screamed again, this time breaking off with choking sobs. He shook under Alec’s hand, and blood slowly leaked from his face to mix darkly with the brandy. He finally seemed to catch on to the fact that Alec was more than just an idle threat, though, because he didn’t move, didn’t protest further. He snuffled pathetically, eyes clenched tightly closed. “Mmm... money? Is that what you want?” he asked. “I have it. It takes time to get to, but I have some.”

“I want you to remember this,” Alec said, holding him pinned into the glass. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to see if he could crack Talbot’s skull with one hand. “I want you to never go near your sons again. Never contact them. Never _think_ about them. Because if you so much as search their names on the internet, I’ll come back. Understand?”

“My... my _children_ love me.” Talbot’s voice was low and fervent, and he opened his eyes. “They need me. I can help them achieve greatness for England.”

“You have no idea how very, very wrong you are.” Alec leaned a bit more of his weight on the hand covering the side of Talbot’s face, drawing another agonised sound. “I know _everything_ about you, Harry. And if you ever give me cause to come back, I’ll ensure the whole world knows. You’ll never be asked to judge a flower show, much less be allowed to set foot in Parliament.”

“Harold,” Talbot demanded indignantly, before it seemed to occur to him that such protests — under the strong hand of a man who was grinding your face into glass shards — weren’t wise. “You don’t want anything from me?”

“Oh, I do.” Alec leaned in and said, “I want you to make a complete cock-up of this, Harry. I want to come back for another visit — one _last_ visit — so I know you’ll never bother your sons again. You seem like a bloody idiot, so you’ll do that for me. Will you do that for me?”

Talbot shuddered as he breathed out. He shook his head, his own actions causing him to whimper before he reined himself in. “And if they come to me?” he whispered.

“They won’t. But if they do...” Alec smiled. “You apologise to them, and then you leave. And I _know_ you can’t manage a sincere, heartfelt apology, Harry, so I’m certain I’ll be back.”

“Sons,” Talbot muttered, but it was only partly defiant. Under the bitter hate, Talbot seemed to be trying it on for size. Apparently the taste of it in his mouth was too much, however, because he tried to pull away with a muttered, “Fine.”

Alec sighed with a disappointment he really didn’t feel. “Let’s hope you wake up soon, Mr Talbot. The sooner you wake up to call emergency services, the less scarring there’ll be. You don’t want to look bad for the cameras, do you? At least, not until I come back in a few days.”

“I won’t give you cause to,” Talbot hissed. “They’re not worth the trouble.”

The anger that Alec had struggled to hold back finally snapped. He felt his body move without conscious control, and when he stepped back, he saw the blood spreading through the shards of glass. He was breathing calmly, steadily, and his heart rate was comfortably low — too comfortably low.

With no memory of the past few seconds, he verified that Talbot was still breathing. So Alec hadn’t cracked anything too vital.

Satisfied, he turned and left. He wanted to get back before Bond and Q woke up, or at least before they got out of bed.

He wondered how long it would be before he had to come back.

 

~~~

 

For as much as Bond liked to think there was a science and skill behind everything men like him and Alec did, the fact was that it was, at least a little bit, and unquantifiable reliance on an extra sense that one either had, or didn’t. He knew better than to think Alec had done anything that would actually wake Bond up — he was silent, moving with the predator’s grace that would keep his presence invisible to anyone else. Without seeing, without hearing, Bond still _knew_.

Alec had done something.

The click of the ensuite door and the subsequent running of the shower confirmed it. It wasn’t to wash away the evidence, or to hide anything from Bond; Alec knew better than that. It was to wash away the traces of the darkness he had sought out, faced, and dealt with, leaving him clean for Q.

Not for Bond, of course.

Bond didn’t know yet what this meant, though he could guess. Alec’s short absence meant it was something here in England, and unless he were moonlighting for MI5 — unlikely, at best — that left only one possibility.

Bond stroked lightly down Q’s back, his touch so barely-there that it wouldn’t wake Q. He watched the rise and fall of Q’s body as he breathed, the pulse of his precious heartbeat in his neck, the way his fingers twitched in his sleep, as if he were still typing. If it had been any other morning, Bond would have smiled. This morning, he was struck with an overwhelming sense of protective love, and wondered if Q really, honestly knew just how far his agents would go for him.

He hoped not. Q didn’t deserve to bear the weight of that on his shoulders. It was for Alec and Bond alone.

He stroked his hand down Q’s back one more time, for once not feeling smug about just how thoroughly he and Alec had worn Q out the night before, keeping him up late, ensuring that he’d still be sleeping when Alec got back. He listened to the pipes rattle as Alec shut off the water and waited, thumb on Q’s pulse, his anchor.

Alec came out a few minutes later, wearing his robe — the one with the scorched corner from years ago, when he and Bond had got into an argument over how to cook a proper English roast and ended up setting fire to his kitchen. Q had offered to replace it, until they’d told him the story, at which point he’d forbidden either of them going near the kitchen ever again.

Hesitating in the doorway, Alec looked at the bed and met Bond’s eyes. He frowned questioningly and nodded at Q, softly asking, “Asleep?”

Bond nodded. “If you’d told me last night you were intentionally trying to exhaust him, I could have helped more.” The unspoken _should I have been there?_ lay under the simple words like an offering.

Alec walked to the bed — not to his own side but to Bond’s. He sat down, looking at Q, and said in Russian, “I went off-mission.”

Bond refused to acknowledge the curl of unease in the pit of his stomach. Being on home territory didn’t make cover-up impossible, just more difficult. Personally, Bond favoured burning the body, but circumstances were always more tricky in first world countries. Also switching to Russian, Bond asked, “What do you need me to do?”

Alec shrugged, never looking away from Q. “There’s no traceable evidence. He should survive.” Though his voice was calm, Bond could see how carefully his expression was controlled.

Bond knew that, sometimes, it was his job to pull Alec back. To rein him in or hold him to that fragile, always-moving line of humanity over terrible base instinct. But this morning, it wasn’t necessary. Whatever Alec had done, it probably wasn’t as much as either would have liked to see inflicted. Talbot had earned much, much worse. He grinned at Alec, all teeth and no amusement. “That’s a shame.”

Some of the tension left Alec’s shoulders as he glanced at Bond, reassured by the lack of condemnation in his voice. “Does he suspect?” He reached over Bond to touch his fingertips to the blanket over Q’s hip.

“No. And he won’t ask. He let me — let _us_ — take that away from him.” Bond reached out and pulled Alec’s hand from Q’s hip to replace it over the steady thrum of his pulse, where Bond’s hand had been only moments earlier. He could never get Alec to listen to his heartbeat the way Bond did, though he knew why. This was good enough for now, until he accepted his place with Bond and Q. “He won’t ask,” he said again, not entirely certain now who he was reassuring.

“Good.” Alec’s thumb slipped up Q’s jaw, though he went still when Q moved under his touch. “I don’t remember everything.”

 _Fuck_. The internal curse and flinch happened before Bond could consciously control it, but he kept them from showing in his body language. Rage blackouts were a very bad sign, under normal circumstances. It was a sign of that precious facade of self-control slipping, that fragile line being snapped. But Bond couldn’t bring himself to actually be worried. In fact, the longer he thought about it, the more he realised he should have seen it coming. Alec had one last line of defence between him and Q and Bond, one last bit of self-denial that kept him just apart enough from them. If he acknowledged that his emotions were that badly tangled, that he cared _that bloody much_ , maybe...

Bond sighed, refusing to chastise Alec for letting emotion take charge, for once. “He must have been one sorry son of a bitch.”

Alec’s smile was barely there. “If anything happens — even a _hint_ of him sniffing around — I want him. There’s something _wrong_ with him. He didn’t believe I was serious.”

Bond snorted out a laugh, quiet enough to keep from disturbing Q. He tried to picture the frail-looking whip of a man he’d seen in newspaper articles, hissing and defiant in the face of Alec’s wrath. _Wrong_ didn’t even begin to describe it. “I’m certain he does by now. And if he forgets, the reminders may be a nice diversion for you.”

After one last affectionate brush over Q’s cheek, Alec sat up and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, stretching. “He should be up soon. I’ll go get breakfast,” he offered in English.

Bond shook his head, knowing that what Alec needed right now was to stay tangled with Q, grounding himself, not allowing any hint of doubt seep in. “Stay here. Keep him warm.” He was out from under the duvet and on his feet too fast for Alec to argue. “Get in before he gets cold.”

Alec glared at him, though he shrugged out of the robe and took Bond’s place under the duvet. He lay down on his back and pulled Q into his arms. Without properly waking, Q got an arm over Alec’s chest and buried his face against Alec’s shoulder.

“Make coffee in a couple of hours?” Alec suggested as he pulled the duvet up over Q, tucking it around his back.

Bond nodded as he pulled on his dressing gown. He padded quietly to the door, then stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at Q, at Alec, at the only people he lived for anymore.

“Good work tonight, Alec,” he said after a moment’s pause.

Alec met Bond’s eyes and nodded.

Alec’s response wasn’t quite acceptance, but it was close enough. For now.


	31. Chapter 31

**Saturday, 23 March 2013**

Alec looked sceptically at the garage entrance. The building looked like it had been under construction and lost funding — no surprise, in this part of London. In fact, he was determined that nothing was going to surprise them tonight, and he stuck close to Q’s left side, keeping a wary eye on everything as they stopped in the shadows. Bond, on Q’s right, looked just as on-edge as Alec felt.

Q made it one more step before they both caught his arms, holding him back. He glanced at them, looking fragile and young, wrapped up in a parka and scarf over his black suit. His expression went from confused to understanding, and he said, “This is the right place. It’s perfectly safe, I promise.”

“How is _this_ safe?” Alec asked, throwing a glance at the nearest streetlight, which had been deliberately shot out, he guessed. The pool of darkness by the garage was a little too coincidental.

“This is exactly the sort of place I would choose for doing things I didn’t want to get caught doing,” Bond said darkly, surveying the fire escapes. “Kidnapping our Quartermaster wouldn’t be terribly difficult under these conditions — not in the least because you wouldn’t let us bring grenades.”

“If my brother wanted to kidnap me, he’d know better than to invite you both along,” Q said calmly, though he made no move towards the garage entrance.

Alec looked past Q to Bond, wishing that they’d taken the precaution of running a proper security check on this mysterious brother. ‘Fraternal twin’, ‘transsexual’, and ‘rich genius programmer’ did nothing to reassure Alec that all this was safe. Hell, if this were a trap, why not set it to catch _two_ geniuses instead of just one?

“We could just invite him back to our place for takeaway like I originally suggested,” Bond said, not looking away from the building. “Or meet him some other time. Alec brought home those new obsidian blades... it’s a good night for experimentation.”

Q hesitated, which was answer enough; otherwise, he would have immediately put the choice back in Bond’s hands. Before Q could answer, Alec asked, “Want me to take a look?”

Bond’s gaze darted over to Q before looking up at Alec. After a moment’s further hesitation, he nodded. “All right. We’ll wait here.”

Alec nodded, brushing a hand over Q’s arm as he headed into the garage. The roll-up doors had been levered open, though he had to duck to fit underneath. His footsteps were loud in the emptiness, and he instinctively tried to talk more softly, getting away from the entryway before he started to cross the open garage. There was no specific security threat, at least at home, but enough was going on in the world that he wasn’t willing to take chances.

For two weeks, they’d been trying to arrange a good time for the four of them to meet up, but Alec’s field work ran longer than expected, and then Q’s brother had insisted on arranging this. Whatever _this_ was.

“He just said to wear something nice, and to be at this address at ten on Saturday evening,” Q had unhelpfully explained, which turned into a discussion of what ‘something nice’ meant. Alec had only half-listened, until Bond mentioned something about leather bondage pants, of all things, and the conversation promptly fell apart.

Any other night, the memory would have been a pleasant distraction; now, Alec didn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

Faint green light caught his attention: fluorescent chalk, glowing sickly green under a blacklight strung up from an exposed bit of rebar. The chalk was an arrow, pointing off to the left, where Alec saw a metal fire door.

He resisted the urge to put on his earpiece and ring Bond’s mobile. This wasn’t a mission. They were in the heart of London — though granted, this wasn’t the nicest part of the city. If there was any threat here that they couldn’t face, he’d eat his damned Walther and retire to take up gardening.

As quietly as he could, he let himself through the fire door, where flickering yellow emergency lights filled the concrete shaft. He started up the stairs, using the warmth as an excuse to open his coat, giving him better access to the gun holstered at the small of his back. It wasn’t ideal, but Q had pointedly not included shoulder holsters when he’d laid out their clothes. And though Alec hadn’t actually seen Bond arm himself, he suspected a matching back holster.

Of course, Alec was also carrying his .380 in an ankle holster and two knives, but he didn’t need to mention that to either of them. No need for Q to think he was paranoid, and Bond knew better than to think he wasn’t.

He climbed four storeys before he reached a landing where the emergency light had been replaced with another blacklight, this one illuminating an ornate sign chalked onto the back of the door, with blocky, art deco style writing declaring _The Haven_ , the words almost lost under a frame of geometric designs.

If this was a kidnapping, it was a damned _interesting_ one.

He opened the door, only to be confronted by the warm glow of candlelight softened by glass shades. Music echoed down the hallway. A woman stood at a podium before him, smiling invitingly. Of all things, she had a feather sticking up from her short black hair, and she appeared to be wearing a heavily beaded gown that left her shoulders almost completely bare.

“Hey there, handsome,” she said, twitching a brow at him. In the faint candlelight, he could barely see what looked like a beauty mark, a tiny spot of black against her dark skin, over her lip. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

Some things were reflex. Alec gave her a charming smile and said, “Entirely my fault. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Uh-huh.” The feather in her hair bobbed as she looked him over. “New here, are you?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“This ‘someone’ got a name?”

“Z,” Alec ventured.

The woman’s smile turned bright. “Oh! Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, suddenly warm and friendly. She gestured Alec past the podium, saying, “Coat check’s on the right, bar’s on the left, dance floor and cinema beyond.”

Bemused, Alec thanked her and followed her directions to the coat check, where a tall, skinny ginger man with gartered sleeves and an elaborately patterned waistcoat hung his raincoat on a portable clothing rack, offering him a claim ticket in exchange.

Resisting the temptation to text Bond immediately, Alec ventured across the hall to the bar, where he found the remnants of 1920s America, if he had to guess. Most of the women were in tight dresses with elaborate embroidery or beadwork, their hair curled and pinned under feathered fascinators or beaded headbands. A few wore slender suits and fedoras. The men were more plainly dressed, for the most part, though some had gone all-out, in blinding white linen or, in a few cases, short dresses and heels to match the women.

The bar was hidden beneath draped cloth matching the curtains on the walls and the tablecloths on small round tables scattered throughout the room. Shelves behind the bar held a selection of champagne as well as fine quality liquor.

Definitely not a kidnapping attempt, Alec decided. Or if it was, it was a bloody comfortable one. The last time he’d been kidnapped in a way that involved champagne had been in Brazil, and that had worked out just fine, so he didn’t hesitate to step out into the hallway to text Bond the all-clear.

 

~~~

 

_Unless England is under threat from 1920s American flappers, it’s clear. And there’s champagne._

Bond sighed at the text, but couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised. Of all things Z might be accused of being, conventional certainly wasn’t one of them. He’d tried to picture Z in any number of places on their way here — a restaurant, a pub, hotel bar — and the image of Q’s brother in any of them was almost comical.

Not that Z _couldn’t_ blend in if he wanted to, Bond though, casting a look over at Q. He’d bet anything Q wasn’t the only family member that had an incredible chameleon-like talent of fitting into places he needed to be. The difference was that Q had motivation to blend in with MI6 agents, for example — it was all in the larger context of service to Bond. But Z, as far as Bond had determined from their conversations about him, didn’t have any such anchor. There was absolutely no reason for Z not to do anything he wanted at any given moment.

It was finally the realisation that Z would be just as disinclined to put Q in any danger as Bond and Alec were that got him moving.

“Flappers?” he asked Q. He wrapped his arm around Q’s waist and slowly approached the building.

Q gave him a blank look through his snow-dusted glasses. “Butterfly valves on a gas or liquid delivery system?”

“I doubt it.” He couldn’t quite hide his growing tension when they reached the building. Between the unconventional setting and the fact that he had no idea if Z and Alec would instantly hate each other, Bond was feeling more than a little twitchy. Not that he had ever considered _not_ bringing Alec. “If Alec and Z explode, what do you think minimum safe distance will be?”

“Z’s very relaxed and accepting,” Q assured Bond as they walked into the garage. Bond pulled Q to the side, conscious that they were silhouetted against the snowy night. “As long as Alec doesn’t...  Z is occasionally sensitive about gender. But Alec isn’t the type who’d thoughtlessly say something insulting or provocative.”

“Unless he’s provoked,” Bond muttered quietly. He could almost see the worst scenario in his mind’s eye — Alec hitting on Z, because it was as natural as breathing, Z rebuffing him with his merciless, blunt tongue, and Alec verbally retaliating. “Does Z know about” — Bond paused, glancing over at Q — “all three of us?”

“He knows that Alec... was there for me, while you were gone,” Q said carefully, though his eyes had gone a bit wide. He took off his glasses and took a lens cloth from the inside pocket of his suit jacket to gently dab the lenses dry. “And obviously he knows I belong to you.”

Bond thought about the next bit of phrasing carefully; he wanted Q to know that he didn’t have to hide anything from Z, including the relationship they had — all three of them. But he didn’t want Q to feel like he had to share things he wasn’t comfortable with. “Unless you request otherwise, I have no intention of restricting Alec’s behaviour towards you — us — while we’re around Z.”

Q smiled at him and leaned close, giving him a kiss on the cheek when he paused his steps. “Thank you for clarifying that, James. But you’ve met Z. There’s absolutely no reason to be discreet around him. He certainly wouldn’t make the attempt.”

The implications of _that_ particular sentence had Bond grinning again. “Fair enough. Let’s never test that theory, shall we?” He spotted a glowing green chalk arrow on a pillar and, assuming this was meant for them, he followed it towards a fire door.

“If you plan to get into a contest to outdo Z, you’ll probably want to enlist my help — and Alec’s,” Q said innocently. “Otherwise, you’ll lose.”

Bond stopped for just a moment and tugged Q close to his chest. “All three of us, here?” he asked wickedly, though he had absolutely no intention of even going _near_ that path.

Parka rustling, Q put his arms around Bond and got as close as their heavy coats would allow. “Think of how we met, James. I’m nearly as much of an exhibitionist as I am a submissive. Having you both is fine with me.”

Bond stared into Q’s eyes, gripping his waist, reading the truth of that statement in both his body language and his words. Despite knowing that he was being entirely predictable, Bond let the sudden wash of possessive fury turn his gaze dark and his grip tighter. “Like hell,” he growled, releasing one sharp hip to reach up for Q’s collar. He reached his gloved fingers under layers of fabric to get at the warm metal and pulled it tight. “No one gets to see you like that but me and Alec.”

Q nodded, a little breathless, and reached up with one hand to work the chain out from under his shirt and tie without pulling it free of Bond’s grasp. He turned the chain to uncover the identity tags, and then he put his arms back around Bond, saying, “I’m yours, James. Entirely.”

Something eased in Bond, and he nodded without letting go. He tipped his head forward to rest it on Q’s, and breathed in the smell of his hair. Though Bond had been back for four months now, he still felt like he would never get enough. Hair, eyes, smile, warmth, touch — it wasn't that he was playing catch-up; it was that he never wanted to leave Q’s side again. Suddenly, he felt like Q needed to know that again, before they went in.

“I love you,” he said quietly into Q’s hair.

Q held him close with one arm, bringing the other hand up to cover Bond’s, holding his fingers wrapped around the collar. “I love you, James,” he said just as softly. “Z will always be a part of me, but I chose to give myself to you. You mean more to me than anything else. You and Alec, both.”

Some quiet part of him needed to hear that. He didn’t know the details of the brothers’ relationship, but twins were about as close as it could get among siblings. Q’s assurance that Bond and Alec would always come first — even over Z — was a soothing one.

Feeling much better about the situation in general, Bond nodded. “Thank you. Now let’s make sure they’re not slaughtering each other in there.”

“I’m certain it’s fine,” Q said, though he subtly tensed. As soon as Bond’s grasp eased, he stepped back, waiting.

With one last deep breath, Bond smiled and led the way to the stairs.

 

~~~

 

Beyond the bar, Alec found a hallway, curtained off to lead patrons across to what must have once been a conference room. The windows had been papered over in black, and the only light came from brass chandeliers full of candles suspended from the drop ceiling. A woman was draped against a baby grand piano, singing her heart out to the music of a six-piece jazz band. Couples of all configurations were slow-dancing, and more people were sitting at tables around the perimeter, sipping cocktails and champagne by candlelight.

He had no idea specifically who he was looking for, but ‘fraternal twin’ gave him a starting point. He suspected male dress, though he didn’t restrict himself to only looking at the ones in suits; it was best not to make assumptions.

An open door on the far side of the dance hall led to another open area, this one with mismatched sofas arranged to face a screen hanging from the ceiling. An old fashioned projector was playing a silent black-and-white film that Alec vaguely recognised. _Dracula_? _Nosferatu_? Something like that.

There were two more makeshift cinemas playing another black-and-white silent movie, and one with a tinny audio track. He was actually surprised at the lack of drugs or couples (or more) fucking on the sofas. The crowd was surprisingly restrained.

Thinking he should get a drink while waiting for Bond to overcome his fear of garages, Alec made his way back through the dance hall and across to the bar. To his delight, the bar had a fine selection of vodkas, meaning he wasn’t going to be stuck drinking champagne or trendy cocktails to kill the taste of low-quality swill.

Then, as he was waiting to catch the bartender’s attention, a little prickle of awareness crawled over his skin, and he turned casually, surveying the room until he spotted what had to be Z.

He was, no surprise, fucking gorgeous, and he was nothing like Q, except in the shape of his face and his build. He wore a slim-fitted pinstripe suit and crystal-studded piercings in his lip, nose, and eyebrow. His hair was even more of a wreck than Q’s usually was, teased into spikes and curls, glowing subtly with colour that looked dusted or airbrushed over the strands.

And he was staring right at Alec, smirking.

Amused, Alec started towards him, watching the way his tongue darted out to play with one of the rings in his lip. It didn’t feel _precisely_ seductive, though there was a sensuality to it that seemed almost unconscious — or at least it wasn’t directed _at_ him, except perhaps as a challenge.

Not interested in men, or perhaps just not in Alec, either of which made Alec’s life easier. A near-obsession with one brother was more than enough for him.

When Alec was five feet away, Z reached a hand into his inside jacket pocket; habit made Alec tense, until Z pulled out nothing more deadly than a silver cigarette case. He grinned as if he knew exactly what Alec had been thinking.

“So, you’re the other one who’s fucking my brother,” Z observed as he took out a cigarette.

After a single heartbeat, Alec answered, just as blandly, “Occasionally.”

Z grinned and tucked a cigarette between his lips. He put the case back in his jacket and went to the nearest table, where he leaned over, ignoring the couple who were chatting there, to light the cigarette at one of the candles. He straightened out with a muttered, “Thanks,” and walked back over to Alec. “You forget them?”

“They’re probably still in the garage,” Alec said truthfully.

“Probably fucking against one of the pillars. They’re like bloody teenagers or something.”

Alec couldn’t help but laugh. Having Q’s evil twin try and shock him might be the second-best thing that had happened to him in years. “That they are.” He nodded at the bar, still grinning, and asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Always. But one of us is enough for you. You’re not my type.”

“Male?”

“And dom,” Z clarified, giving Alec a direct, challenging look.

Alec shrugged, more than happy with what he had with Q and Bond. “Fine by me.”

 

~~~

 

“This is so... _him_ ,” Q said, helping Bond out of his coat. “Z never was the type for normal restaurants or nightclubs.” He handed the coat to the attendant, and then quickly got out of his parka.

“Which aren’t exactly our style, either,” Bond pointed out. He let his thumbnail scratch along the skin of Q’s neck just above the shirt collar. “As long as I don’t have to kill anyone, it should be a _fascinating_ evening.”

Q looked at Bond, reading the nuances of his mood in his body language and the way his eyes didn’t settle. This was new to him — unfamiliar — and therefore a potential threat. So Q shifted, catching Bond’s fingers on the collar, and met his eyes slowly, looking up over the edge of his glasses. “If you do, please try not to get blood on the suit, James. It’s one of your best,” he said with quiet innocence.

Bond’s eyes flicked over the suit, as if trying to evaluate potential blood splatter patterns, before he met Q’s eyes again. “You manipulative genius,” he accused quietly before moving in to kiss Q.

Q gave in, pleased at how Bond relaxed, even fractionally. The woman acting as maitre d’ let out a sharp whistle, and the man at the coat check started applauding.

 _So much for shy_ was Q’s last coherent thought, until he heard a familiar voice say, “If you’re going to fuck my brother against the fucking wall, either sell tickets or warn me so I can be more drunk, you arse.”

“It’s the foyer,” Bond finally said in his most reasonable voice, looking at Q with an expression that said he would be much, much happier at home, naked, with the obsidian blades. “You’re not supposed to be in the foyer, Z.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Alec asked. “He doesn’t take orders. One of _those_ types.”

“Look who’s fucking talking,” Z challenged.

“Very shy and reserved, aren’t you?” Alec asked Z, who grinned as though proud.

Q recovered his composure enough to say, “Not even when he’s unconscious. He’s been known to throw things in his sleep. Occasionally, knives.”

“Right, then,” Z said cheerfully, and took hold of Q’s hand and tugged. In an instinct that was a lifetime old, Q let himself be pulled out of Bond’s arms and into a quick hug. Very softly, Z said, “Missed you, brother.”

The distraction of Alec and Bond ebbed, replaced by the comfortable rightness of having Z with him. He returned the hug wordlessly, knowing Z could almost read his thoughts by body language alone.

“Come on,” Z said, looking back over Q’s shoulder at Alec and Bond. “You can pretend to be nice for one fucking drink. Consider it foreplay or something.”

Q laughed and muttered, “They’re _much_ more creative than that.”

“ _I’m_ creative,” Alec said, looking at Bond.

“And I’m _always_ nice,” Bond said flatly, though Q could see his mouth quirk before Z dragged him into the bar.

“Everything going all right? Really?” Z asked quietly, steering Q to the nearest open table. “I mean, don’t half of all fucking marriages turn to shit after the wedding?”

“You’re impossible,” Q accused, giving his brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Everything’s fine.”

“And the other —” Z cut off as Alec and Bond joined them. Keeping his back turned, Z made a subtle hand gesture in Alec’s direction.

Q answered with a faint nod, touched by Z’s overprotectiveness. Some of it was what they’d both been through, growing up with their closed-minded parents. The rest, though, was the difference in the way they thought. Even if Q hadn’t grown so very attached to Alec in the months they’d worked together to rescue Bond, he would have been perfectly content to have Alec join them, because it was what Bond wanted. Q could fake dominance if necessary, but it felt wrong to him; Z couldn’t even pretend to submit without lashing out.

Bond was still a bit tense, unlike Alec; apparently, Z had charmed Alec into relaxing. While they settled at the table, Q slipped away to the bar, scanning the bottles. Choosing a drink for Alec was easy, in this mood. Bond, though... A complex blended scotch, the type of drink that would encourage him to relax and tease out the flavours, rather than something meant to be consumed for alcohol content alone.

Manipulative genius, Bond had called him, and Q smiled as the bartender came over to flirt with him. Really, for all that Bond and Alec were trained to read people, they had no idea.

 

~~~

 

“We need to hire him,” Alec said, looking past Q to Bond as they walked out into the snow two hours later. “Doesn’t even matter what for. Bloody office mascot.”

“My brother is _very_ much not suited for an office environment,” Q said, tugging his scarf up a little higher before he shoved his gloved hands back into his pockets.

“Oh, right. Because James and I are?”

“I think your earlier idea of turning him loose on the executives would be brilliant,” Bond said, scanning the street as they walked back to the car. “By the time they figured out how to respond to him, he’d have taken over.”

“Which would solve the question of the European Union,” Q murmured. “He _was_ able to pass as a business professional until he sold his first company, at which point he decided he’d rather not sell at all to someone who didn’t want to deal with the real him. Then he went home and burned his old wardrobe.” Q grinned, his eyes distant with memory. “I mean that literally. He was evicted from his flat for setting the fire on his balcony.”

Bond huffed out a laugh, casting an amused glance over at Q. “Let’s never invite him over for a homemade dinner, shall we? Between our accidental fires and his apparent pyro tendencies, there may not be any survivors.” He gave the garage one last look before they crossed the street. “Interesting place.”

“It’ll be gone by dawn,” Alec said. “Apparently they’re taking underground restaurants to new extremes.”

Q glanced up at him. “This has been going on for years. Z’s never liked conventional clubs or bars. He says any place that advertises — fetish clubs, for example — are trying too hard to fit a stereotype or cater to a particular demographic that he doesn’t fit. Here, he can usually find someone without any preconceptions.”

Bond thought about Z, about just how much he liked to live on the fringe of society. They weren’t so very different in that, except that Bond preferred to _pretend_ he belonged among the rank and file. But even then, surrounded by people who laughed and chatted and seemed to be perfectly comfortable in their places, Bond tended not to feel anything but isolation and loneliness.

Until Alec — and Q, of course. He tightened his hand on Q’s, suddenly feeling more than a little sorry for Z. Bond knew about loneliness. And he knew how much worse it could be for a genius like Q, whose life had never been made easier for all his intelligence. At least Q and Bond had each other and Alec. Who did Z have?

“Perhaps next time, he should warn us,” Bond finally said. “Just so we fit in a little better.”

Q squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, James. He wouldn’t even tell me. I’m certain he wanted to gauge how well you’d both adapt. He tends to experiment on people that way.” After a moment’s consideration, Q softly added, “Full initial disclosure hasn’t always worked out well for him.”

Bond looked over Alec, who had tensed at the implication that Z had been treated poorly in the past. “Did we pass the test?” he asked mildly.

“I believe so,” Q answered, giving Bond a warm smile.

“We got along all right,” Alec added, giving Bond a significant look. “I like him.”

The sound of a voice he’d never heard spitting out the word _“Sons!”_ echoed in Bond’s imagination. He nodded, understanding that Alec’s protectiveness towards Z hadn’t changed, now that they’d met.

At the car, Alec got ahead of Q and opened the back door for him. When Q got in, Alec closed the door and met Bond’s eyes. “I let Z know I ‘talked’ with their father, and about the letter,” he said softly as he unbuttoned Bond’s coat enough to reach inside. The casual familiarity was still new but not unwelcome. He found Bond’s cigarettes, took a lighter from his own pocket, shook two cigarettes from the pack. “After he stopped swearing, he was very supportive of our decision to intervene.” He put both cigarettes to his mouth and lit them, and then offered one to Bond. “Well, he never _stopped_ swearing. I’m not sure he _can_.”

Bond took the cigarette and smiled. “Not that we’d ask him to. He’s bloody adorable, in his own prickly way. Is he now fully aware that he can ask us for anything?” He knew that to Alec, the logic was simple: Q was theirs. Z was Q’s. As long as Z himself wasn’t a threat to any of them — even a passive one, who might hurt Q with words rather than actions — Z was now under their protection. But Alec’s logic wasn’t standard; even if Z already didn’t think like the average person, he would probably have to be directly told.

“He said if they come after Q again, he can help.” Alec exhaled smoke into the snowy night air. “He had to get a court order against them ten years back, before he changed his name.”

“What the fuck is wrong with people?” Bond growled, blowing cigarette smoke into the cold air. “At least Q has us.”

“Because you _bought_ him,” Alec said, leaning on the wet car without a care for his suit. “Tell anyone else that — fuck, tell _Danielle_ that, and she adores us, remember — and suddenly you’re the bad guy. We just know better.”

“But to get a court order, they must have been _really_...” Bond sighed and shook his head.

“It’s done with.” Alec shrugged and exhaled smoke into the night sky. “I gave Z our contact information. He said he’d call if either of the parents tried to find him.”

“Good. And Q?”

Alec smiled. “He said we did right, not telling him. Apparently he tried to be the son they wanted him to be, until it became too much.”

Bond suppressed the anger that rose up in him at the thought. He nodded and dropped the half-finished cigarette; Q had subtly suggested they stop smoking in the car, and they’d both avoided it ever since. Sometimes, Bond wondered which of them was really in charge in this relationship; he doubted it was himself or Alec.

Silently, Alec put a hand on Bond’s shoulder. Bond glanced at him and nodded. “Not a word to Q.”

“Never,” Alec promised, and pitched his cigarette away before he went to get in the car.


	32. Chapter 32

**Saturday, 27 April 2013**

“This isn’t real,” Alec said as Bond turned the Land Rover through the gates to Kaleigh Castle. Rather than a stately house, the castle was just that — an immense grey stone castle, with turrets and high parapets, torn from the pages of a fairy tale, complete with a blue-green lake and dark forest beyond. “Either this isn’t real, and you’ve driven us into whatever land you bloody Brits use for legends, or it is real, and we’ve just found where we’re going to hole up in the event of a fucking zombie apocalypse, because that building is gorgeously defensible.”

Bond cast an amused glance at Q in the rearview mirror before he smirked over at Alec. “It’s owned by one of the companies that runs the Marketplace, though they take outside tourists as well. It looks real enough,” he said, admiring the view of the castle. “You know how they used to halt attackers at the door? By pouring boiling oil over them.”

“If we could _avoid_ doing that, please,” Q said without looking up from his mobile. He let out an irritated huff and put it to his ear, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Am I allowed to task you two to kill my own team leads? Or at least to shoot them a little bit?”

“James, this is a vacation, right?” Alec asked cheerfully. “Your third... anniversary, if you can call it that?”

“If by which you mean we’re only lightly armed, and entirely lack grenades to do the job properly, then yes.” Bond chuckled and ducked to look up at the castle. Not much impressed him in terms of architecture — after enough cities and enough international skylines, it all just blended into different shades of brick and glass. But this? This was spectacular. “Not to mention it’s over eight hours back to London, and I have plans for the rest of the day that don’t include Q’s lackeys.”

“Right.” Alec turned enough to extend his hand to Q. “Hand it over.”

Q looked up at Alec. “This is —”

“Important. It’s _always_ bloody important. Now.” With a quick glance in the mirror at Bond, Q set the mobile in Alec’s hand. Alec turned to Bond and asked, “You want to tell MI6 to bugger off, or shall I?”

Bond looked away from the entrancing castle to meet Q’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do you have any objection to everyone knowing the three of us went on holiday together?” he asked lightly.

“No, not if you don’t,” Q answered.

“Excellent. They’re all yours, Alec,” Bond chuckled. “Feel free _not_ to tell them we didn’t bring grenades.”

Alec grinned and set the mobile to his ear. “This is 006 — Oh, you heard?” he asked innocently. “Mmm. See, if you’re too stupid to find Ms Marsh or someone in charge — You’re not? Excellent. Then I suggest you do your best to encourage me and 007 to forget you even bloody well exist, or we might want to have a private talk with you when we come back from holiday.” Alec smirked at Bond and said into the phone, “And you have a lovely couple of weeks in London.” Then he rang off and turned the mobile over in his hands.

Q twitched forward, eyes going wide, though he kept silent.

When Alec pulled out the battery and threw it out the window, Q flinched.

“Holiday secured,” Alec said wryly as he handed the mobile back to Q.

“Nicely done,” Bond congratulated approvingly. “With the added benefit of us not having to shoot any MI6 employees when we get back, either. It’s always so much damn paperwork, even when the shots aren’t lethal.” Then he caught Q’s attention again with narrowed eyes in his direction. “No email or routine checking in on your networks, either. Your only free pass will be if they contact the castle to fetch you to the phone, _and_ something must be burning.”

“Yes, James,” Q said obediently, though he didn’t sound particularly unhappy about it. He shoved the now-dead mobile in his pocket and turned his attention to looking out the window at the castle.

“See, I have to object,” Alec said. “If something’s burning back home, I say we take the castle staff prisoner, form a militia with the competent ones, and bar the gates.”

“In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I approve. Did you bring a camera, Q?”

“Yes, James. I can give you both instruction in using it properly when we’re settled,” he said, giving Bond a somewhat stern look in the rearview mirror.

“It’s a _camera_ ,” Alec protested.

“It has buttons on it, sir,” Q said smugly. “Anything with buttons is breakable by field agents — _especially_ senior field operatives.”

Bond glanced over at Alec. “You don’t mind taking photos, do you?”

“Not at all,” Alec said, “as long as we can start tomorrow. I want to get the hell out of this seat and do nothing more stressful than go for a walk and have dinner.”

“From what I saw on the website, there are some fantastic footpaths through the woods,” Bond said. “If you can repress your imagination enough to not suspect the Big Bad Wolf will come out to play, it shouldn’t be stressful at all.”

“Don’t make me suggest you get on a horse,” Alec challenged Bond. “There’s a stable here, you know.” Then he looked back and added to Q, “I’m a much better rider than he’ll ever be.”

“And you’re welcome to have that particular title all to yourself,” Bond muttered as he followed the signs to parking. “Bloody nasty things, horses, with teeth bigger than your hand and a propensity to dismount you for no reason whatsoever. Give me a camel any day.”

“A camel? Disgusting creatures.” Alec shuddered theatrically. As Bond found a spot in the small carpark, he said, “Doesn’t look too crowded.”

“Peak time for visits is during the summer. We’re a month and a half early,” Q said.

“Good. I hate crowds. Are we going running tomorrow?” Alec asked, turning back to Bond.

“Sure,” Bond said with a shrug as he put the car in park and pulled out his keys. “I haven’t been for a run on a decent wooded footpath in ages. Remember that trail in Pakistan? Between the tree roots and cliff edge, it turned jogging into an extreme sport.”

“Damned fun,” Alec approved, glancing at the forest. “Too flat here for anything like that.” As soon as the Land Rover came to a stop, he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out with a sigh.

“Much nicer than Texas,” Q said as he also got out. He reached for Bond’s door and pulled it open. “It was nearly a desert there.”

“Agreed,” Bond said. “I enjoyed the rather spirited atmosphere at Fort Hood, but the landscape was damned desolate.” He let Q shut the door behind him and walked around the back of the car to start retrieving bags. They hadn’t packed much, but Bond and Alec refused to let Q carry their bags simply because they preferred to have their weapons close at hand. “Nice shooting facilities, though.”

“America’s always so unanticipated,” Alec approved as he picked up his backpack and garment bag. “We should invade. Or defect. And they fucking adore our accents there.”

“Starting a war with an allied nation is against regs,” Q pointed out. He caught Bond around the waist and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, James?” he asked sweetly.

Bond smiled softly, completely unable to even pretend to resist. He wrapped his arms around Q’s waist and leaned in for a gentle kiss. “Only because you asked nicely,” he said quietly into the kiss.

 

~~~

 

Q had never visited Kaleigh Castle, though he’d heard rumours. It was staffed mostly — though not entirely —  with locals, rather than trainees or Marketplace slaves, and despite the authentic exterior, it had been remodelled in recent years.

They had a tower suite, with a substantial bedroom overlooking the lake and a sitting room with a fireplace filled with spring flowers. When Q had booked the room, he’d given detailed requirements, ensuring a room with a king-sized bed and spa big enough for two, and the staff had outdone themselves in accommodating.

Their maid, Emily, was one of the locals rather than anyone with the Marketplace. She introduced herself, slipped Q a card with her telephone extension on it, and said, “If you’d like, you’re in time for drinks in the garden, followed by dinner in the great hall or the family dining room, as you prefer. I can unpack for you.”

Q looked over at Bond and Alec, giving them a quick, subtle nod.

“Sounds lovely,” Bond said. “We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

With a cheerful smile, she warned, “Don’t take too long. They’ve a lovely singer performing in the garden in twenty minutes,” before she sketched a little curtsy and let herself out.

Alec turned away from where he’d been looking out the window. “When’s the last time you stayed somewhere with maid service, where the maid _wasn’t_ an assassin?”

“Who says she’s not?” Bond asked with a raised eyebrow as he unpacked his gun from his bag.

“If she is, you can register a complaint with the head of housekeeping,” Q said, amused. His spies weren’t _quite_ that paranoid, but he had no doubt that they were both far more wary than the average tourist on holiday.

They locked their handguns in the safe built into the wardrobe. Assuming they wouldn’t be coming back to the room, Q got out nice jackets and checked his pockets for their cigarettes and his lighter. He tried not to get distracted by worrying about what was going on back in TSS — all but officially named Q Branch, six months after he’d taken over — but every time he turned around, there was a new crisis. This was a terrible time to be on holiday, but Bond and Alec were right: There was no _good_ time for him to be on holiday.

“Am I presentable?” Bond asked with a crooked smile after Q had helped him into the jacket. Before Q could go to Alec, Bond caught his wrist and pulled him close. He rested a thumb over Q’s nape, rubbing along the ridged scars that were almost entirely healed over. There were many more now, running from beneath his hair to the newest ones between his shoulderblades. Bond and Alec never cut in more than five or six at a time, so progress was slow but steady.

“You’re gorgeous,” Q whispered, throat going tight. He rested his head on Bond’s shoulder, shivering a bit when he thought of how close he’d come to not having all of this. If he’d walked out on Bond at any time they were onboard _Le Nautille_ , Q would’ve gone back to the Marketplace, and he would’ve thought he was happy without ever knowing how much more he could have. He pulled back enough to give Bond a slow, heartfelt kiss, letting his body speak the words he could never quite articulate.

Bond kissed back just as slowly, still holding Q by the neck as the other hand went between Q’s shoulderblades. “Drinks, dinner, and then I look forward to being very, very lazy,” he growled playfully, pressing over the newest cuts. Q closed his eyes, feeling London and all the demands on him slip away. He leaned contentedly against Bond, nuzzling at his neck to silently suggest that he’d be entirely happy to skip the pre-dinner drinks.

“Look at you two. Bloody teenagers,” Alec said gruffly, though Q could hear him trying to hide his grin, and failing. “Drinks, dinner, and then a walk, remember? That is, if we can borrow a blanket.”

“A blanket?” Bond asked distractedly, nibbling at Q’s ear. “And not teenagers. Newlyweds,” he added with an amused huff before he bit and tugged at Q’s earlobe.

“A blanket,” Alec said, moving behind Q to take hold of his hair. He pulled hard, and Q couldn’t quite hide the little sound he made. “Because we’re not in London, surrounded by eight million people, and if you’re not willing to take advantage of that private forest out there, I certainly am.”

Bond bent to press his mouth to Q’s neck, and Q could feel the rumble of laughter that rolled through him. “Blanket it is. Q can pack whatever he wants — a pillow, rope, whatever,” he added before he let his teeth graze Q’s Adam’s apple. “Unless you have something more specific in mind.”

“We’re on _holiday_ ,” Alec said, pressing close to Q’s back. The tug on Q’s hair turned softer, more affectionate. “I feel lazy. Let’s let him do all the work for a change.”

Q swallowed and tried to find his voice, letting Alec hold him so Bond could bite as he wished. “I could — I’d be happy to,” he said somewhat incoherently, fingers tightening on Bond’s hips.

“Fucking _brilliant_ idea,” Bond approved, licking at the hollow of Q’s throat before stepping back with a nod. “All right. Let’s get the drinks and dinner over with, shall we? I’m almost tempted to skip it all and go right for dessert.”

“They — I could — _We_ could get a basket of food,” Q offered, remembering something on the castle’s website about picnic lunches. They’d accommodate a guest’s request for a picnic dinner just as easily. “I could arrange it, while you have drinks.”

“Nothing that needs silverware,” Alec said, letting go of Q’s hair so he could take hold of his wrists instead. “Makes it damned complicated to feed you, if we’re always looking for forks.”

“Perfect,” Bond muttered, running his thumb over Q’s mouth.

“I’ll do my best, James,” Q said, pressing a kiss to Bond’s thumb.

Alec let go of him, ducking to kiss the back of his neck. When Q shivered, Alec nipped sharply, making him gasp. Then, laughing, Alec asked, “Drinks, James?”

“Absolutely,” Bond replied with an impish grin. He crossed the room to open the door for Alec. “Come find us when you’re ready, Q.”

He looked at them and smiled. “Yes, James,” he said, thinking he was _definitely_ lucky that he hadn’t left Bond onboard the ship. Then, as they left, he went to the phone to call their maid. She’d be able to help with the arrangements, and she wouldn’t even blink at the request for a blanket and two throw pillows to take out into the woods.


	33. Chapter 33

**Friday, 3 May 2013**

A week into their holiday, Q could sense Bond and Alec getting restless. In London, even between missions, their schedules were carefully managed. Firearms and combat qualifications, medical checkups, intelligence briefings, work with junior agents, and even paperwork all combined to keep the Double O’s busy. MI6’s executives had learned the painful lesson that bored agents either lost their edge or made their own entertainment.

Now, after a week of days packed with hiking, horseback riding, skeet shooting, and one memorable afternoon of swimming in the still-icy lake, Q could see the signs of restlessness. It would be a matter of days before they insisted on going back to London just to check up on things, entirely missing the benefit of an actual holiday.

After arranging the two-week trip to the castle, Q had spent two hours over a long lunch talking with one of MI6’s psychiatrists who specialised in PTSD. She’d explained that while most people could relax into a vacation in three to five days, it could take significantly longer for a field agent. “Don’t give up on him,” she’d advised. “If you give in and let him revert to form, you’ll be right back where you started.”

Which meant Q needed to outthink his agents. Again.

Fortunately, he had a very amenable staff to help his efforts, and it was easy to arrange a trip to a local distillery for a whiskey tasting. Bond had immediately expressed interest in going, which meant Alec had to go along to remind Bond of the superiority of vodka to any lesser drink. And it was easy for Q to stay behind, with the subtle, indistinct excuse of ‘catching up with friends’ — meaning the few staffers who were from the Marketplace — especially since he rarely drank more than a glass of wine with dinner, when Bond ordered it for him at a restaurant.

Even better, the castle provided transport to the distillery, on the grounds of avoiding having drunk guests driving around the countryside, which meant there was minimal chance of Bond and Alec returning early. As soon as Q saw them off, he went right into the servants’ passages he’d scouted out over the last week, and went to speak with the head of housekeeping.

A half hour later, two porters delivered a small wooden trunk and a thick carpet of soft black sheepskin. In exchange, they removed the coffee table from the sitting room, and moved the armchairs to either side of the balcony door. Q saw them off, hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside the door, and searched through the contents of the trunk. Two dozen candles, smelling sweetly of beeswax; several coils of deep red hemp rope, in varying thicknesses and lengths; emergency shears; and a padded red blindfold, stiff leather covered with silk and decorative black stitching. Satisfied, Q went to the wardrobe and took out the cuffs he’d packed, though they had yet to put them to use on this trip, and two carabiners. Aesthetically, they wouldn’t look as good as more rope, but he was mindful of Bond’s ‘no touching’ rule. He had to do this all on his own.

 

~~~

 

Bond, for once, beat Alec back up the stairs — though he was quite certain it was only because Alec was too busy laughing at him to bother keeping pace. He was pleasantly warm, though the slight buzz at the edges didn’t fully suppress the little curl of restlessness he was starting to feel at still being here at the castle with nothing _exciting_ to do. Alec was laughing at him because Bond had tried to encourage him into an impromptu wrestling match on the castle grounds when they got back. While Bond’s reasons had been valid — it was barely nine in the evening, and Bond wasn’t ready to settle in for the night — Alec’s had been equally so. Even a friendly wrestling match between the two of them was likely to look frightening to the locals. And Q would be more than a little unhappy with them for disturbing his holiday with a police presence.

Apparently, Alec felt the same restlessness. He took the stairs two at a time to catch up with Bond, asking, “Can we go back? Maybe Q will set something on fire. I’m still furious we missed that, you know. You couldn’t have escaped two days earlier?”

Some of the tension that had just loosened from Bond’s chest tightened fractionally again. “We can find another way to give him an excuse,” he said, focusing on keeping up with Alec. He was very nearly back at full strength, but it wasn’t an easy return. Sometimes, he still felt like he was fighting with his body. “Hell, they probably have a firepit here somewhere.”

Alec gave him a sharp look and then sighed. “Christ, James, let it go already. You lived and he died, and that’s what counts in the end. You have two people who love you. What the fuck more do you want?”

Bond stopped on the staircase landing, staring at Alec. A lot of things had changed between them, thanks to Q — and all in very good ways. He was at a momentary loss for words, torn between responding and brushing it off to make it easier for both of them. The hesitation lasted bare seconds; then he was striding towards the second set of stairs. “Love you, too, you annoying bastard,” he threw behind him.

Alec’s footsteps didn’t start until a few seconds later. He caught up as Bond reached their hallway, only to nearly walk into Bond when he went still, frowning at the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door to their room.

Silently, Alec touched the edge of the sign and then shot Bond a look that was entirely sober, sharp and wary. How many times in their careers had a warning sign led to an ambush or worse? And naturally, their guns were in the safe inside the suite.

Then, with an embarrassed little grimace, Alec asked softly, “Think Q’s not feeling well?”

Pushing away thoughts of the horrors they’d often find hiding behind doors bearing DND signs, Bond unlocked the door quietly. He pushed it open carefully and silently, peering around before he stepped across the threshold. The scent of burning candles filled his nostrils, and he could hear, very faintly, the crackle of small flames. What he saw made him duck inside, keeping the door open as little as possible, quickly pulling Alec in behind him.

The furniture was rearranged, leaving the sitting room almost completely open. A new rug of soft black fur or wool covered the stone floor. Q knelt on the rug, skin almost ghostly white by contrast, though the candlelight gave a warm glow to everything. Red ropes circled his body, binding his legs in a kneeling position, wrapped in a simple harness behind his neck and around his chest. His hands were behind his back, though Bond couldn’t see any ropes circling his arms. He wore a blindfold precisely the same shade of red as the ropes.

He didn’t move, except to lift his head slightly and to part his lips on a quiet inhale.

“Fuck,” Alec whispered in Russian. He pushed the door closed and threw the lock by feel, never looking away from Q.

Bond was completely paralyzed for a moment, unable to do anything but drink in the sight of Q bound and waiting. He had a brief moment of overwhelming anger at the thought that someone had come in to bind Q for him, but it vanished in the wake of certainty that Q would never let that happen. Bond knew that the only exception to the ‘no one touches you but me and Alec’ rule was Z, but that he didn’t mind; the circumstances were entirely different.

He must have done this himself.

Finally, Bond moved away from the door. “Fucking hell, Q, you’re amazing,” he muttered quietly as he stripped off his jacket and toed off his shoes.

A faint hint of tension eased from Q’s shoulders, though he didn’t otherwise move. “Thank you, James,” he said, his voice quiet but strained.

Alec moved past Bond, never looking away from Q. He circled the room, his movements abruptly predatory, and studied Q’s back for a moment. Then he beckoned Bond over and nodded at the only anomaly in Q’s bindings: He wore his own black leather cuffs, and had used the old, scratched carabiner to link his wrists together and to the rope harness.

Bond admired the bindings openly, wishing Q wasn’t blindfolded so he could see how very much Bond appreciated the sight of him like this. But after a moment’s consideration, he decided he rather liked the blindfold. It rendered Q that much more helpless and would heighten his other senses.

“All this for us,” Bond said quietly to Alec in Russian. “No wonder he wanted to get rid of us. We need to make this very, very good for him.”

Q’s twitch was subtle but noticeable. Alec watched him intently before glancing at Bond, smiling slyly. “He understood that. Did he understand that?” he asked, also in Russian.

This time, Q remained absolutely still.

Smirking and thinking they’d probably have to switch to Arabic — not as fluent for them, but it would work until Q picked that up, too — Bond knelt in front of Q. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly in Russian.

In English, Q answered, “Thank you, James. I’m sorry. My accent is terrible.”

Behind him, Alec laughed, ruffling a hand through Q’s hair, revealing where the blindfold’s straps circled behind his head and down behind his neck. “We’ll help you practice,” he said, giving a sharp tug, arching Q’s body back. Q let out a breath and leaned into Alec’s hand, trusting that he wouldn’t fall back. Alec leaned down, tracing the scar on Q’s chest with his other hand, fingers trailing along the ropes running to one side and beneath it, as if it were framed.

At first, Bond had no idea where to start. He was caught between wanting to stand and let Q undress him the rest of the way with his teeth — which he’d proven so adept at in the past — and starting to give him what he wanted. While he thought about what he wanted to do, he leaned in to nuzzle at Q’s ear before letting his lips fall over Q’s pulse point. As calm as Q seemed, his heart — the one thing he couldn’t control — was racing.

Alec knelt down behind Q and released his hair. He moved his hand down over the ropes, switching to English, “One day, you’re going to show us how you did this. And what else you can do.”

Q swallowed, turning to brush his cheek against Bond’s face. “Yes, sir,” he answered, voice strained.

Then Alec’s hand moved to Bond’s shoulder, giving him a little push. When Bond met his eyes, Alec motioned him away. “The blindfold is new,” Alec said in Q’s ear. “I expect it won’t get in the way of you pleasing us, will it?”

The question seemed to surprise Q, who gave a little shake of his head. “No, sir.”

“Then undress him,” Alec said, glancing up at Bond before he ducked his head to bite Q’s throat, just above the chain collar and ropes looped behind his neck.

Bond grinned, remembering the game of distraction he’d first considered on the boat years ago now, when he’d envisioned Q having to free himself with lockpicks. Having Alec here made it much, much more fun.

Bond slid backwards a few more inches, evaluating approaches. His button-down shirt would be the first and easiest to go. Trousers and pants would be impossible unless Bond stood — and if he were hard enough by then, even more _interesting_.

Finally, Bond stood. “Trousers and pants first,” he declared, deciding that not only would it be easier before arousal hit full force; it would be much more fun to watch Q struggle with the tiny shirt buttons when Alec’s attentions started making him frantic.

Slowly, Q leaned forward, arms automatically fighting against the cuffs. The ropes around his legs kept him from kneeling upright. He nudged against Bond’s leg, only to falter when Alec’s teeth scraped over his shoulder. Exhaling unsteadily, he rubbed his face against Bond’s leg again, straining to kneel high enough to get at his belt. Bond threaded a hand through Q’s hair, not holding or guiding, merely enjoying the sensation. His other hand dropped to Q’s chest, thumbing over the spirals, letting his nails catch on the smooth ridges of the scar.

Q gasped and went still and tense for an instant, before he pushed against Bond’s hand, leaning forward. He nuzzled at Bond’s cock as he tried to reach high enough to get at his belt, but he had no hope of reaching.

“James,” he said pleadingly, turning his face up as if to meet Bond’s eyes. “Please.”

Alec grinned and leaned close to Q’s ear, asking, “Do you need help, Q?”

With a quick shiver, Q said, “Please, sir.”

“Then you owe me,” Alec answered, leaning back and studying the ropes for an instant. Then he took hold of the back of the harness, fingers pulling the ropes tight enough to make Q gasp. He stood and lifted Q’s weight easily, holding him balanced on his knees.

“Fuck,” Bond muttered, watching Alec and Q. The sight of Q’s helplessness and Alec’s strength was far more arousing than he’d thought it would be. He couldn’t help but grip Q’s hair more tightly so he could roll his hips against Q’s mouth. “So fucking gorgeous like this, isn’t he?” he muttered in English to Alec. “I’ll do this for you next, if you want,” he added in Arabic.

“Why the _fuck_ did we never do this at home?” Alec demanded, looking up from Q to meet Bond’s eyes as Q got his teeth on Bond’s belt and pulled a bit awkwardly.

“I have no idea,” Bond managed, staring back at Alec as Q continued to work at his belt. “I suddenly have all sorts of ideas.”

Slowly, Alec grinned. “You’re not the only one,” he said, and abruptly pulled Q back an inch. The belt came free only because he didn’t release it quickly enough. Over the sound of Q’s gasp, Alec asked, “Are we suddenly doing what _you_ want? Did you forget which of us gives the orders here?”

Q shivered, tipping his head back, still unsteadily held up by the ropes and his knees. “No, sir.”

“Are you _certain_?” Alec asked, crouching back down. Bond saw the way he positioned himself to support Q’s weight, though he was certain all Q noticed was the feel of Alec’s breath over his ear and the ominous way Alec’s voice had gone soft and quiet as he said, “This was all _your_ idea. I didn’t order you to do this to yourself. Did you, James?”

“I’m not nearly creative enough,” Bond replied, smirking at Alec. “I would have asked for something much less interesting, like whip cream or another picnic.” He pulled the belt free from its loops, dropping it to the side, still within reaching distance in case either of them could think of a creative way to use it with the rest of Q’s bindings.

Alec pushed Q up another centimetre, making him gasp again. He kept one hand in the ropes; the other was right at Q’s side, ready to grab hold if Q slipped. “See? All your idea, Q.” He held Q absolutely still, and Q nuzzled at Bond’s cock before he caught hold of his trousers so he could tug the waistband open with his teeth. “Have we been too easy on you?”

“No —”

“Did I say to stop?” Alec demanded sharply. Q immediately began searching for the zip, his efforts clumsy and halting. When he caught it, he pulled, fighting against the natural drape of the fabric, managing to tug the zip down an inch at a time. Alec eased him back down to the rug.

As soon as the zip was down, Q said, “Thank you, sir.”

Bond let out a long breath, already far more turned on than he wanted to be to ensure that the evening didn’t end too early. “You have _got_ to try that,” he finally said. He stood long enough to shed his trousers and pants — technically bypassing Q and not caring in the least. Then he crouched in front of Q.

“Stay there,” he told Alec, then tugged Q around. He grabbed the ropes the same way and pulled Q up to his knees, easily holding him balanced upright.

Q struggled to find Alec’s belt, hands clenched into fists. He finally caught the leather with his teeth and tugged, only to nearly slip when Alec’s fingers combed through his hair and pulled sharply. Q let out a shaky breath and turned his head so he could pull the tongue of the belt through the buckle. When he strained to find the waistband, Alec stopped him, running his fingers over Q’s mouth.

“What else do you think he can do, bound like this?” he asked, watching Q lick and suck at his fingertips.

Bond watched his mouth on Alec’s hand and took a shaky breath. “Not just bound like this,” he said, trying for snark, but his voice had gone dark with lust. He pressed his thumbs into the soft skin of Q’s back, then leaned in to very slowly lick a line up over Q’s spine, letting his tongue slide over every ridge that he could reach between the ropes. “Distracted, too,” he added when he made it over the last of the scars.

Q’s gasp signalled the return of Alec’s interest in getting undressed. A sharp pull on Q’s hair made him start searching out the waistband of Alec’s trousers. He had to fight against Alec’s hand to get at the zip.

“We need to get him a blindfold,” Alec said roughly, both hands combing through Q’s hair as Q ducked his head, opening his flies.

“God, yes,” Bond agreed, closing his eyes to imagine Q bound and blindfolded in the middle of their living room floor. “And I think it’s time I tried to get the fireplace working, too, don’t you? The firelight on his skin...” He leaned in and, without letting Q slip, licked a long, hot line up the side of Q’s neck. “I can think of so many games we could play... And we still haven’t tried letting him pick the locks while we distract him.”

Alec laughed. “What about now, Q? Can you get out, while we distract you?” he challenged, tugging Q away from his trousers.

Without hesitation, Q answered, “No, sir.”

“That’s not like you, giving up without even trying.”

“It’s not possible — not for me. I’m not flexible enough to reach the carabiner.”

Alec’s hands went tight, making Q whimper quietly. “Helpless,” he said quietly, looking over Q’s shoulder at Bond.

Bond knew he should have been worried about what might have happened if they hadn’t come back that night for whatever reason, or someone else had walked in. But all he could think of was that Q was completely at their mercy — absolutely willing, without hesitation.

With a low growl, Bond lowered Q. He pushed Q’s head down towards Alec’s cock, though it was still hidden under his pants. Bond bit down on the nape of Q’s neck and reached up to lay hard scratches down his front at the same time.

“Fuck,” Alec breathed as Q mouthed over his pants, whimpering under Bond’s touches. He tugged Q up, and Q obligingly caught the waistband and pulled it away from Alec’s body. Done playing, at least for now, Alec shoved the fabric down over his hips and said, “Get them the rest of the way.”

Q might have said, “Yes, sir,” but it was muffled by Alec’s clothes. He squirmed in Bond’s arms to try and pull the fabric down over Alec’s legs.

Alec’s hand moved from Q’s hair to Bond’s, his touch lighter, more tentative. Bond turned his head to brush a kiss over Alec’s hand before he nipped lightly at one of his knuckles. When he lifted his head again, he found Alec staring at him intently.

Alec moved back enough to kick free of his trousers and pants. Then he stepped close to Q again but ignored him to take hold of Bond’s arm instead. He pulled Bond up to his feet, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, and met his eyes, hesitating for one last moment.

For all their occasional, unacknowledged, and adrenaline-fueled sex, they’d never indulged in actual kissing; perhaps it was just too personal — the wrong kind of personal for what they both needed at the time. But now, it was easier than Bond thought it would be to cover the last few inches to lean in, failing to bother with tentativeness or hesitation. He captured Alec’s mouth unapologetically and kissed him deeply, letting their awkward declarations on the staircase bleed into satisfying physical action.

Where Q was gentle and compliant even in desperation, Alec was anything but. He took and demanded, hand tight around the back of Bond’s neck, not giving an inch. He bit hard and licked and pressed close, trapping Q between them, for the moment not the centre of their attention. Bond felt Q shifting, rubbing his head back against Bond’s leg before he turned to lick at Alec’s thigh. Absently, Alec’s hand returned to Q’s hair, ruffling through the strands, though most of his focus remained on Bond.

When he did finally back away, the pressure of his fingers easing, he met Bond’s eyes with only a hint of wariness, as if knowing he wouldn’t be rebuffed for the unexpected intimacy. Then he looked down, lips curving up in a smirk, and wrenched Q’s head back. Q gasped, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

“Look who thinks we’ve forgotten about him,” Alec said, amused.

Bond’s heart beat incredibly fast at the most recent shift in their relationship. His mind was humming with the thought that he could have it all. Both of them, not merely him and Alec orbiting Q, never closing the distance between themselves. He swallowed and pushed it back, looking down at Q. “I was going to have him unbutton my shirt as well, but I’m not certain I have the patience,” he admitted. He reached down and let his thumb scrape down the scar on Q’s chest.

“Better idea,” Alec said brusquely, and released Q to give Bond’s arm another tug. He guided Bond around Q and pulled him down to the thick wool rug. A push had Bond leaning back against Q’s body; Q braced himself, bowing his head so he could nuzzle at Bond’s hair, pressing desperate kisses down towards his ear.

Alec knelt down, straddling Bond’s legs, and started unbuttoning Bond’s shirt.

“Oh, god, you’re brilliant,” Bond growled appreciatively. He ran his free hands up Alec’s legs to grip his hips before sliding them back down again, twisting so he could kiss Q. He didn’t let his hands stop exploring, going from knees to thighs to arse until finally he let one of his hands slide between Alec’s legs.

Alec swore under his breath, hips bucking forward at Bond’s touch. With a quick jerk of his hand, he pulled the next button off, baring Bond’s chest for a bite. When Bond gasped, Q made a small, needy sound and kissed wherever he could reach.

With a harsh little laugh, Alec said, “We could do this. Or we could push him down, fuck against him instead of the side of the bed. He’d be a damned sight more comfortable and accommodating.”

Bond reached up to where Alec’s head was still over his chest and pulled so he could reach Alec’s ear. With a delicate tongue that was at odds with his harsh grip, he traced the shell of Alec’s ear lightly, keeping it tucked in the curve. Knowing Alec’s preferences as well as he did, he didn’t hesitate to dip the tip into the ear canal itself, exploring lightly, loving the way Alec shuddered over him. “Yes,” he finally said when he withdrew. “Sounds like a brilliant plan to me.”

“Fuck,” Alec whispered, lifting his head to look from Bond to Q and back. Then he knelt up enough to take hold of Bond’s shirt and rip it open the rest of the way. He ducked as if to go back to biting, and then hesitated, moving his thumb to rub over Bond’s chest, mirroring the latest bullet scar. “You could have matching scars if you wanted,” he said, digging his nail into Bond’s skin, tracing a curved line. “Something that’s not a design, so it blends in with the rest.”

Bond didn’t hesitate. “God, yes. And you, too?”

Alec grinned. “Why not?” he asked, and leaned down to kiss Bond again.

The kiss was perfect, everything they’d been working towards but had denied themselves. Bond moved his hands from Alec’s hair to his shirt, working at the buttons as quickly as he could. When Alec broke the kiss to bite at Bond’s throat, his fingers stuttered, and Alec laughed. Finally, the shirt came undone, and Bond pushed it off his shoulders so he could run his fingers over strong muscles and hot skin.

Breathless, Alec knelt up, pulled open his cuffs, and dropped the shirt. “You planned this, Q. Where’d you put the supplies?”

Q lifted his head from Bond’s hair, answering tightly, “The table by the balcony doors, sir.”

Alec got up, balancing on one foot, then the other, to strip off his socks. “May as well turn around for a bit, James. No sense letting Q get too bored,” he suggested as he went to the end table that had once been next to the sofa.

Still feeling more than a little like he were in a dream state, Bond sat up straight and turned around to face Q. He grinned at the genius and traced the blindfold’s edges with his fingertip. “Bloody brilliant,” he said appreciatively. He reached down with one hand to teasingly stroke at Q’s cock, then kissed him roughly, the other hand holding him at the back of his neck.

Q whimpered, surrendering to the kiss with a desperation Bond had never before seen in him. He strained forward, fighting the ropes, licking at Bond’s mouth and moaning at every bite. His breath came in little gasps, and he shifted to spread his legs, trying to inch closer.

Bond didn’t deny him contact — it was only Q’s bound legs that made it difficult. He pulled Q as close as he could without toppling them both and started to let the hand not on Q’s cock wander more freely, travelling down his spine, around Q’s arse, up his side. He pinched and twisted when he reached a nipple, and Q arched against his hand, rising up just a little, getting his toes on the rug to kneel higher off the floor.

It was gratifying, so Bond repeated the action on the other side, this time timing it with a hard downstroke over Q’s cock. “James. James, please,” Q begged.

Alec came back and dropped a string of three condoms and a small bottle of lubricant on the rug beside Q. He crouched behind Q and slid a hand over his mouth, teasing his fingertips inside. “You’ll have to do better than just words, Q. Show him how much you want to make him feel good,” he said, looking at Bond.

Bond had a hard time tearing his eyes away from where Alec’s fingers were in Q’s mouth, and when he did, he looked back up at Alec, knowing his eyes would be flinting with a sudden surge of arousal. He sat back just a little bit, eyes still on Alec’s, and waited to see what he would do.

Alec grinned and leaned in, saying softly, “You’re going to do _exactly_ as I say, Q, and not even breathe without permission. Understand?”

When Alec brushed his fingers over Q’s lips to cup his chin, Q nodded as best he could, “Yes, sir.”

“Lean forward.” Alec moved his hands away, and though Bond saw he was prepared to grab Q’s arm or the rope harness, Q had no way of knowing he wouldn’t fall on his face. But trustingly, he leaned down, until he found Bond’s legs. He turned his head automatically but then froze.

Alec laughed. “Good,” he said, and Q shivered slightly. “Now move up. Kiss and lick. Go slow.”

Bond closed his eyes at the feel of Q’s mouth on him and Alec’s words washing over him. He had a moment to feel guilty that Q was focused only on him, until he realised that Alec was probably perfectly content to torment both his lovers at the same time. He started to think about ways to turn it around, right as Alec said, “James. Move closer. We always rush this part — only now, no one’s going anywhere until we’re done.”

Perfectly content to let Q go as slow as Alec wanted, he did as asked and moved closer. Being within reaching distance of Alec and with the vision of his fingers in Q’s mouth fresh in his mind, he reached out for Alec’s hand and started sucking gently at the pads.

Alec’s eyes snapped to his. He took in a ragged breath, resting his free hand idly on Q’s back. Then, with some effort, he looked back down and said, “Keep going, Q. Balls first. No rushing to his cock.”

Q made a little sound of protest but pushed blindly between Bond’s legs, nuzzling into his hair as he extended his tongue. He licked slowly, sensuously, ducking as low as he could. He trapped skin with his lips and sucked gently and teased with soft pressure, taking meticulous care to avoid Bond’s cock.

Bond did his best to copy what Q was doing with Alec’s hand. He kept his eyes locked on Alec’s except when something Q did caused his own to flutter shut for a moment. He let his free hand travel down Q’s spine, nail scratching the vertebrae, until he was far enough down to brush a fingertip against Q’s entrance.

Alec glanced down and drew back his hand, brushing once at Bond’s lips. Then he picked up the bottle of lubricant and shifted on the rug, covering the sound as he unscrewed the cap, rather than popping it open. He poured some in his hand and set the bottle carefully aside, out of the way, and leaned down.

As Alec’s hand moved against Bond’s, spreading lubricant over his fingers, he whispered loudly, “Now lick up, Q. Just lick. Don’t take him into your mouth yet. Slow and light.” And as Q started to move, teasing his tongue over Bond’s cock in little strokes, Alec pushed Bond’s finger inside Q, and followed with his own.

“Oh, fuck, Alec,” Bond gasped out, the dual sensations sending shocks of heat running through his body. For once, Bond didn’t want Q in the middle, between him and Alec, giving pleasure to one while getting fucked by the other. This time, _he_ wanted Alec. But he couldn’t suggest that yet, so he looked down at where their fingers were opening Q. He started to think of a way to challenge Alec — to tell him to get Q off without coming so he could still fuck Bond — but logical thought seemed to be melting away at an alarmingly rapid rate.

Q’s gasps sent hot breath over Bond’s cock, though Q stubbornly refused to do more than Alec instructed. He only licked, in broad sweeps up the full length or tiny flicks from side to side, all while moaning and whimpering as Bond’s and Alec’s fingers twisted and slid together inside him.

Reaching over Q’s back, Bond could only get his fingers so far. Alec pushed deep, abruptly, and Q whined, tongue going still for a moment as he shivered. His cuffed hands were locked into fists, nails digging into his palms. Alec looked over Q’s body and met Bond’s eyes, full of a fierce, dangerous elation that Bond had never seen in him outside combat, when things were going perfectly for him and very, very badly for the enemy.

“Back off, Q. Back down to his balls,” Alec ordered, his tone deliberately challenging. And he pushed his finger in again, curling against Bond’s.

Bond groaned at the renewed sensations, tipping his head back and closing his eyes to better focus on the pleasure pulsing through him. He reached out blindly for Alec’s free hand and, when he finally found it without having to open his eyes, placed it over his chest. “Alec,” he all but whispered.

“How do you want him?” Alec asked, nails pressing into Bond’s skin just hard enough to spark his nerves to life.

Bond looked at Q one more time before moving away. He pulled his hands free and moved in — placing himself between the two men. He kept his back to Alec and tugged at Q to better line up with him. He turned his head, meeting Alec’s gaze. “Is this all right?” he asked before he started to lick at Alec’s ear.

“Fucking — Do you —” Alec said, composure breaking. He wrapped his arm around Bond’s body, exhaling sharply. “Let’s not have a misunderstanding here, James. Do you want me —”

“Yes,” Bond interrupted. _God_ he wanted, more than anything. He wanted to feel, to be felt, to be surrounded so much by the two people who loved him that he didn’t have to think about anything else. He wanted the world to vanish in a haze of pleasure and, _fucking hell_... safety. He leaned back against Alec for emphasis, sucking on his ear, though he pushed his hips forward to rub his cock over Q’s arse. In response, Q spread his legs even more, balancing awkwardly, and arched his back to lift his hips invitingly.

Alec’s laugh was soft and a little nervous. “Right. May as well do this slowly, for once in our fucking lives,” he said, giving Bond a careful push over Q’s body. He ran a finger down over the base of Bond’s spine, all the way down to his balls, and then turned to retrieve the lubricant.

Bent over Q, Bond took the opportunity to lavish him with attention. Starting at the tailbone and working his way up, he littered Q’s back with hard bites that left wonderful marks everywhere that wasn’t covered with rope. He nipped and tugged at Q’s fingers before rubbing his cheek in the palm of one of Q’s hands.

Alec’s hands were gentle, fingers slick with lubricant. He teased and massaged and moved carefully into Bond’s body with the attention Bond had seen him lavish on Q, when playfully teasing, but had never experienced himself in their desperate encounters, fuelled by anger or grief or frustration. He didn’t just coax Bond’s body into relaxing; he aroused Bond’s interest in something Bond rarely allowed.

When Bond was panting, thoughts scattered under a haze of desire, Alec put an arm around him and pulled him upright. “Did you want to fuck him?” he asked, before ducking his head to bite Bond’s neck again.

Bond groaned under the attention, tipping his head back and reaching up with one hand to tangle it in Alec’s hair. He groped with the other one to find the lubricant, hands shaky with delicious tension, and poured some over Q without looking. He rubbed it in without much care, then recapped the bottle and set it aside. “Together,” he demanded quietly.

Alec grinned against Bond’s neck, nipped one last time, and said, “Fucking brilliant,” as he reached for the condoms. He ripped one packet away from the others, but Bond reached out to stop him. He took it away from Alec and tossed it aside, then reached out for the rest to do the same.

“No more condoms, Alec. You’re a part of this. He belongs to both of us. That all right, Q?”

Q nodded without hesitation. “Yes. Yes, James.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Alec moved his hand down to Bond’s cock. He stroked once, feeling the length, and bit more slowly into Bond’s throat when he groaned. In soft Russian, Alec said, “Thank you.”

Bond would have responded, but Alec’s hand sped up, scattering his thoughts. A little push encouraged Bond to move close behind Q, and Alec moved the head of Bond’s cock over Q’s entrance, teasing them both. Q whined and pleaded, voice muffled by the thick wool rug, and Alec gave a little push with his hips before he moved his hand back.

Then Alec said, “Spread your legs a bit more,” as his hand dipped down between Bond’s legs. There was one last touch of Alec’s fingers before he replaced them with his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Bond whispered, as he pushed back into Alec’s slow, steady thrust. “Oh, fuck. Oh, god.” He closed his eyes again, his body bleeding free of tension as he was trapped between two different but equally delicious pressures. At first it was overwhelming — he didn’t know whether to push into Q or backwards onto Alec, so he held still, trembling, and let them come to him.

Alec’s arms circled him, hands running over Bond’s body slowly, as though actually feeling him for the first time. “All right, James?” he asked, his voice gravelly and low. His fingers slipped lower, teasing the curls at the base of Bond’s cock, and Q whimpered when Alec’s fingers brushed his skin.

Bond didn’t answer — couldn’t answer — except to give a short nod. The mechanics of how this was supposed to work suddenly seemed far more complicated than they had in theory, and Bond stared down at Q’s body. Without dislodging Alec, he reached down to pull Q backwards... pull them both backwards. He gave an experimental hard tug on Q’s hips, moving at the same time to push himself further onto Alec.

Alec’s harsh Russian oath was lost under Q’s renewed pleading. The arms around Bond’s body tightened as Q’s back arched, taking Bond even deeper. Then Alec backed off before thrusting in hard, pushing Bond — and Q — forward, and Bond realised there was no way any of them would last, even if they tried to go slowly. Alec’s next thrust was accompanied by a sharp bite, harder than Q ever dared, and he didn’t let go as he fucked into Bond faster, harder, driving him deep into Q’s body. Q’s breaths were punctuated by sharp whimpers, fists clenched tight as he struggled against his bindings.

It was almost too much, being completely surrounded by pleasure and just the right hint of pain from where Alec’s teeth were digging into his shoulder. But as Alec thrust harder and faster and Bond used that momentum to fuck into Q, the sense of being overwhelmed vanished almost immediately. It coalesced into something bright and warm and safe; the sense of being wanted and needed gathered in his heart even as the heat pooled in his stomach. He held on tightly to Q, fingers mercilessly digging bruises into pale skin, and tipped his head back to find Alec’s ear. He licked and bit and sucked with whatever focus he wasn’t using to stay buried inside Q, and it took him a moment to realise that the low growls of pleasure were coming from his own throat.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell, James,” Alec whispered, thrusting hard and pinning Bond to Q’s body. Hyper-aware of everything, of every inch of his own skin, Bond felt the subtle contractions of Alec’s orgasm. Using the brief moment of stillness to his advantage, Bond let go of Q to hold Alec close against him, eyes closing at the rush of need and affection he felt. He held on until the last tremors faded. Alec bit his shoulder again, this time lazily, breathing in sharp pants through his nose. Then the bite eased into a kiss before he eased free of Bond’s body to sit back on the rug, breathing hard. His hand dropped to Bond’s calf, fingers holding him tightly, maintaining that connection between them.

Bond held still only for a moment longer before he turned his attention to Q, whose pleading had trailed off into quiet, desperate whines. He leaned forward again and grabbed Q by his rope harness rather than his hips, allowing him to pull Q close against him. The perfect counterbalance of thrusting into Q while straining to hold him by his bindings gave Bond just the right amount of tension. He didn’t waste time with going slowly; he curled a hand around Q’s cock and worked him mercilessly as he fucked him. He lasted bare minutes longer before the heat overtook him, shouting a curse into the air as he came hard in Q.

Then Alec was there, supporting Q’s weight with an arm around his chest, and his hand wrapped around Bond’s to start him moving over Q’s cock again. Q moaned, pleading, “Oh, god. Please, please,” for a few seconds that stretched out forever, before his words disappeared. His body clenched around Bond’s cock, pushing another spike of pleasure through him, almost too much to bear.

It was Alec who gathered Q into his arms to ease him away from Bond, and who steadied Bond with a hand on his arm as he dropped to sit on the wool rug. He sat down beside Bond, both of them looking at Q. He was leaning forward, breathing deeply, body relaxed despite the ropes holding him.

“Fifteen minutes, then we’ll have another go?” Alec asked through panted breaths, giving Bond an exhausted, sated grin to show he wasn’t serious.

Bond gave as much of a chuckle as he was able to through his own heavy breathing. He reached over to unbuckle Q’s blindfold to toss it aside, and unhooked the carabiner before collapsing backward onto the rug. “Fucking hell,” he said with quiet contentment, closing his eyes and grinning absently at the ceiling.

Alec shifted to catch Q’s wrists before he could pull his arms from behind his back. “Easy,” he said roughly, moving up to rub at his shoulders. Q sighed and didn’t protest. “You’re going to have to show us how you did this.”

“Yes, sir,” Q said drowsily.

Alec nudged at Bond’s leg with one foot, without stopping the gentle movements of his hands on Q’s shoulders. “Think he has other hidden talents?”

“I’m certain of it,” he said with a wry grin. “Just as I’m certain he’ll only reveal them slowly, as we threaten to cause havoc with our boredom.” With a groan, Bond got to his feet. “I’ll get the massage oil. Want to untie him and get him on the bed?”

“The spa heater is on, if you’d rather,” Q said. He lifted his head, blinking and squinting against the candlelight. The faint imprint of the blindfold’s edges circled his eyes. “I can undo the ropes myself.”

Off-balance, Bond crouched down in front of Q and smiled before kissing him lazily. “You’re amazing, but I think you should let us take care of you. Maybe the spa afterwards. I find myself wanting nothing more than to have my hands all over your skin.”

Alec laughed and combed his fingers through Q’s hair. He met Bond’s eyes over Q’s shoulder. “Neither of you is in any shape to walk yet. James, get him untied. I’ll find the oil, maybe something to drink.” He got up, brushing a hand over Bond’s shoulder as he did, the touch comfortable and unhesitating.

Relief that Alec wasn’t going to pull back away again made Bond sigh happily, and he grinned as he knelt down again on the rug, careful to keep pressure off his sore arse. He started to carefully untie the ropes, admiring how expertly they had been wound around Q’s body.

He rubbed gently at the marks left behind as he released the rope, pressing kisses here and there as Q slowly came free.

“You’re so brilliant,” Bond said affectionately. “And amazing. Thank you.”

Eyes still closed, Q shifted on the rug so he could lean against Bond’s chest. He carefully straightened his legs, tensing a bit as he did. “I wasn’t certain you’d be pleased,” he admitted.

Bond nuzzled at Q’s ear and said quietly, “It was perfect for all three of us.” He pulled Q close and whispered, “I think he’s ready, finally.”

“Ready, James?” Q asked, shifting just enough to drape himself bonelessly against Bond’s body. He nuzzled at Bond’s shoulder before managing to give him a messy, lazy kiss. “For what?”

Bond loved Q like this, sated and pliant and delicious, and if he didn’t have something important to get done, he would normally have revelled in it. These moments were far, far too rare. But maybe not so much anymore.

“For being added to the contract,” Bond said.

Q’s breath caught, and he lifted his head to blink at Bond. “Is that what you want?” he asked, and Bond knew it was because he _had_ to ask. He belonged to Bond first, no matter what they’d shared with Alec, and Q was meticulous in making it clear that he understood that fact.

He curled his hand around Q’s, letting their rings clink against each other. Q was _his_ , but he was Alec’s, too. Alec needed them both, but he would never fully accept his place without some sort of formal declaration that proved, once and for all, that Bond wasn’t going to suddenly change his mind about what they had, that he wasn’t going to fly into a possessive rage and demand that Alec leave. The truth was that Bond, though he could never admit it to either of them, was afraid that Alec was going to do what he’d been threatening to do — find someone new from the Marketplace who could never be good enough, who could never bring him what Bond and Q brought him. Alec would settle, thinking he was doing what was best for Bond and Q. Bond couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t ask if it was what Q wanted — he knew the answer to that already.

Q’s nod didn’t quite hide his shiver. “You’ll have to ask him. He won’t accept, if I do.” He turned and kissed Bond’s shoulder again, more lingeringly. “He knows I’m yours.”

The words had their intended effect; any lingering reservations he had about how things might change with formalisation vanished, and Bond ran his hands up and down Q’s back gratefully. “Thank you. I will.”

Leaning back against Bond’s hands, Q met his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, James,” he said, and lifted his face for a proper kiss. He slid his hands back into Bond’s hair and, as the kiss ended, said, “I could never have made it without him.”

Bond nodded. “I know.” Then he chuckled. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing paperwork into our vacation,” he teased.

Q smiled and kissed Bond again, slowly and sweetly. “It’s a special occasion. I’ll even forget about your overdue quarterly inventory accounting report, this time.”

Alec interrupted with a sharp laugh. “Really, James? You’ve got him talking _paperwork_? I leave you alone for two minutes...” He shook his head and leaned against the bedroom doorway, looking out at Bond and Q. “And what is it with you two and strawberries?”

Q laughed and kissed Bond’s chest. “They’re from the maid. There’s melted chocolate for them, too.”

“Melted chocolate?” Bond said with a raised eyebrow. “She must be one hell of a bloody romantic,” he said with a laugh as he stood. He ran his hand through Q’s hair and gave it an affectionate tug.

Q shifted up to his knees, leaning against Bond’s leg. Alec glanced down at him, possessive and protective — a look that didn’t change when he met Bond’s eyes again. He wasn’t hiding from either of them anymore.

Without releasing Q’s hair, Bond held out his free hand to Alec. “First, come here. We need to talk about the future. _Our_ future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~
> 
> An epic ends! We're still not sure how this turned from a sequel into 135,000+ words, but here we are. This has been an incredible journey, and we'd really like to thank you all for sticking with us until the end.
> 
> As of right now, we have no plans to return to this 'verse. Our darlings have found their happy ending, and there are so many other stories to tell.
> 
> Again, we couldn't have done this without our betas, who were always around to answer last-minute calls of "Can you read this chapter _one more time_?" after they'd already read it ten times. If there's a god of pornography, then our betas are surely that god's chosen.
> 
> Thank you guys! For more fic updates, you can follow us on Tumblr:  
> http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com  
> http://kryptaria.tumblr.com


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